Play to the End (25 page)

The sirens were yowling closer through the still air when I scrambled back through the fence and hauled myself up onto the steps of the railway station footbridge. I stood at the top of the steps for several minutes as they drew closer still. The flashing lights of police car and ambulance began to strobe through the darkness beyond the rooftops of the nearby houses. They were almost there. I walked to the other end of the bridge and down the steps into the next street, dialling Ian's number on my mobile as I went.

"Yuh?" He sounded gruff and breathless, but alert.

"The cavalry's arrived."

"So I hear."

"How are you feeling?"

"I'll make it, Toby. Don't worry. And don't phone again ... or do anything stupid .. . like contacting .. . the hospital. OK?"

"OK."

"Be seeing you." With that, he rang off. And I hurried on into the night.

It was a long, cold walk from Fishersgate station to the Sea Air. I had time to think, time to put what had happened into some kind of logical framework. Ian Maple would be all right, or as all right as somebody could be facing a long stay in hospital and interrogation by the police. Their first thought was bound to be that he was involved in drugs trafficking. I could talk them out of that, of course, as I intended to. But they only had our word for it that man mountain was associated with Roger Colborn. Drugs and prostitution could be seen as the beginning and the end of it. We hadn't found Derek Oswin, after all. We couldn't even prove he needed to be found. And we certainly couldn't prove Colborn was responsible for his disappearance. But we could put some pressure on him. We could oblige the police to ask him a few awkward questions. It wasn't much. But it was better than nothing. Colborn had been using man mountain to do his dirty work.

That was clear to me, even if it wouldn't necessarily be clear to the police. What we'd stumbled on at the warehouse was likely to put man mountain behind bars, however, and therefore out of action. Colborn wouldn't be able to call on him any longer. He was going to be on his own. And I was betting he wouldn't like it.

I trudged up Madeira Place more than an hour after leaving Fishersgate station, chilled and weary, as barely able to put one foot in front of the other as I was to piece together the consequences of our bungled night's work. I slid my key into the door of the Sea Air and pushed it open, eager to reach the sanctuary of my room.

Then I stopped. There was an envelope lying on the doormat in front of me. It hadn't been there earlier. I picked it up, carried it to the hall table and switched on the light. There was no name or address on the plain brown manilla envelope, no clue as to who might have dropped it through the letterbox. The contents were bulky, sharp-edged and solid to the touch. I tore the flap open and slid them out.

Three dictaphone micro cassettes held together by a rubber band. Not two, the number stolen earlier, but three. I snapped the band off and looked at them. They were all the same brand. There was no way to tell which two were mine and which the odd one out. Except that two had been rewound to the start of the tape. I hadn't done that. It was as simple a message as could be devised. They'd been listened to and then discarded. Returned to me, almost scornfully.

The third had tape wound onto the right-hand spool. Not much, but some. This was another kind of message.

I hurried up to my room, slid the cassette into the machine and pressed the rewind button. Within seconds, the tape was back to the start.

Then I pressed the play button. And heard Derek Oswin's voice.

"Hello, Mr. Flood. Sorry .. . about all this. I've got us both ...

into a l-lot of t-trouble. The thing is, well... I've been told ... to say this to you. Drop it. Everything. S-s-stop asking questions.

L-leave it alone." He gulped audibly. "If you d-do that .. . and go quietly back to London on Sunday .. . they'll let me go ... unharmed.

And there'll be no danger ... to Mrs. Flood. That's all you have to do, Mr. Flood. Nothing ... at all. Otherwise '

I poured myself some whisky and listened to the tape again. Derek sounded strained and nervous, as well he might. I didn't feel too good myself. The glass trembled in my grasp and the whisky burned in my throat. Colborn was determined to stop me digging out the truth, because the truth had the power to destroy him. I was close to the answer, too close for his comfort. Listening to the tapes must have confirmed his worst fears, hence the change of tactics. Trying to buy me off hadn't worked, so now he meant to scare me off. And, just in case I didn't care what he did to Derek, there was an additional threat he could be certain I'd take seriously. To Jenny. So much for his claim to be genuinely in love with her, to be a better man because of her. Maybe he was bluffing. But he knew I'd never call his bluff.

Because I do love her. I would never do anything to endanger her.

Some time tomorrow, the police will come to me and ask me to corroborate Ian Maple's story. How can I do that without effectively rejecting Colborn's ultimatum? Calling off the search for the truth is almost as difficult as going on with it. And judging what's best is more difficult again. But I'll go on making these recordings. That's one decision I have made. I'll have to take better care of them, of course. I'll have to carry them with me to make sure they don't fall into the wrong hands a second time. In one way, they're a liability.

But they're also a true and accurate record of events. I may have need of that when this is all over. Colborn thinks he can force me to do his bidding. Maybe he's right. We'll see. But, even if he is, that may not be enough. We may have passed the point of no return. If so, doing nothing won't be an option. For either of us.

I was roused this morning by Eunice knocking at the door of my room and calling my name. The sleep I came out of was so deep it left me confused and woolly-headed. Memories of the day and night before reassembled themselves scrappily in my mind. I'd lain awake till God knows when, debating with myself what I should and shouldn't have done.

Then, at some point I couldn't recall, a trapdoor had opened, plunging me into oblivion.

"Toby, Toby," came Eunice's voice. "Are you awake?"

"I am now," I muttered, scrabbling for a sight of the alarm clock. The time apparently, was eight minutes to ten. I felt like I could have slept till noon. "What is it?" I shouted, gravel-throated.

"There's a couple of policemen downstairs. They want to speak to you.

It's urgent, they say."

They'd come, as I'd known they would, come with their battery of questions, to which I had no better or safer answers after sleepless hours of reflection than I had before. "What's it about?" I asked, sitting up woozily and silently congratulating myself on my disingenuousness.

"They wouldn't tell me. Just insisted they had to speak to you."

"All right. I'll come down. But .. . it'll take me ten minutes or so to wash and dress."

"I'll tell them."

My thoughts were only marginally clearer fifteen minutes later when I made a gingerly descent to the residents' lounge. I was unshaven and I'd strained a muscle in my thigh, probably while climbing up onto the footbridge at Fishersgate station. I was neither looking nor feeling at my best.

The same may have been true of Detective Inspector Addis and Detective Sergeant Spooner, as they introduced themselves. Their suits were rumpled, their faces set in glum folds. Both were paunchy, liverish-looking men, unhealthily accustomed to late nights and canteen fry-ups. Addis, the shorter and balder of the two, had distractingly exophthalmic eyes, a gum-chewing habit and a subdued Black Country accent. Spooner sounded local, but didn't seem any friendlier on account of it.

"Sorry to disturb you so early, Mr. Flood," said Addis, with light sarcasm.

"I don't generally get to bed till the small hours after a performance, Inspector," I said, already sensing that I needed to be on the defensive.

"Late nights are an occupational hazard in our game as well as yours, sir," said Spooner. "We haven't had much sleep ourselves."

"No? Well, I'm sorry to have kept you waiting. But I'm here now."

"Your landlady kept us occupied, sir, with her colourful observations on the shortcomings of our uniform division."

"Yeah," said Addis. "Gather you had a break-in here yesterday."

"There was a break-in, yes. Eunice was very upset about it."

"But nothing was taken."

"Apparently not."

"And not much of a mess made."

"That's unusual," put in Spooner, with an exaggerated nod of deliberation.

"But I don't suppose it's why you called."

"No, sir, it isn't," said Addis. "Though what's brought us here is also .. . unusual."

"Are you acquainted with a Mr. Ian Maple, sir?" asked Spooner.

"Yes. He's the brother of a recently deceased fellow actor, Denis Maple. Denis died earlier this week of a heart attack. Ian came down here a couple of days ago toer .. ."

"Find out what had happened," said Addis. "Yeah. So he tells us."

"Look, Inspector, what exactly is this all about?" I tried to look genuinely mystified.

"Mr. Maple's under arrest, sir. Well, he will be when he wakes up from the anaesthetic. They're operating on him now up at the Royal Sussex."

"Operating?"

"Badly broken right leg, sir," said Spooner. "He was in a bit of a mess when we got to him. Any idea why he might have been breaking into a warehouse out at Fishersgate last night?"

"What?"

"The large quantity of hard drugs stored on the premises seems the obvious explanation," said Addis; they were warming up their double act now, alternating their lines in a practised routine. "But Mr. Maple tells it differently."

"When did you last see him, sir?" asked Spooner.

"Er .. . yesterday afternoon. He came to see me at the theatre during the matinee interval."

"To discuss .. . what, sir?"

"Well, he'd, er, been trying to track down a man Denis said had .. .

threatened him. It seemed likely ... to both of us ... that the encounter had put a lot of stress on Denis, leading to his attack."

"Who is this man, sir?"

"I don't know. I never met him."

"But Denis Maple mentioned him to you?"

"Yes."

"And you mentioned him to Ian Maple?"

"Yes."

"Did you also tell him you thought this guy had mistaken Denis Maple for you?"

"I said Denis thought that."

"But you don't?"

"I've no reason to."

"No reason, sir?" put in Addis.

"That's right, Inspector."

"Really?"

"Look, I '

"Are you acquainted with a Mr. Derek Oswin, sir?" asked Spooner.

"Yes."

"Also a Mr. Roger Colborn?"

"Yes."

"What about a Mr. Michael Sobotka?"

"Who? No, I '

"Big fellow," said Addis. "Very big. Polish extraction. Known to us.

Suspected pimp, pusher, God knows what. Mr. Maple's description of the man his brother had some sort of run-in with fits Sobotka to a T.

Mr. Maple claims the drugs in the warehouse belong to him."

"Is that so?"

"We don't yet know, sir," Spooner answered. "We're still checking."

"Well, I... wish you luck."

"Do you know of a connection between Oswin, Colborn and Sobotka?" asked Addis, his tone suddenly hardening.

"No." The lie was told. "I don't."

"Do you have any reason to believe Mr. Oswin may have been abducted?"

"No."

"Or that Sobotka may have carried out that abduction, acting on behalf of Mr. Colborn?"

"No."

"Do you know of any reason why Mr. Colborn should wish to have Mr.

Oswin abducted?"

"No."

"Or why Mr. Maple should believe he had a reason?"

"No."

"Strange." Addis gave me a long, cold stare. "Mr. Maple seemed sure you would."

"We called on Mr. Oswin before coming here," said Spooner. "There was no-one at home."

"Maybe he's gone away."

"When did you last see Mr. Oswin?" asked Addis.

"Er .. . Wednesday afternoon."

"Did he say he was thinking of going away?" asked Spooner.

"Not that I recall. But ... I wouldn't have expected him to. We're not exactly close."

"How are you acquainted with him, sir?"

"He's a fan."

"Really?" put in Addis.

"Yes."

"Do you pay house calls on many of your fans?"

"They don't generally invite me."

"But Mr. Oswin did?"

"Yes."

"What did you discuss with him?"

"My .. . career."

"Your career?"

"Is it true that Mr. Oswin's been bothering your ex-wife, sir?" asked Spooner. He consulted a notebook. "Jennifer Flood, proprietress of a hat shop in the Lanes?"

God, the sheer mental agility required to carry off a lie is so exhausting. I could only hope by this stage that my acting technique was compensating for any obvious deficiencies in the logic of my account. "She's not my ex-wife yet, Sergeant," I said wearily.

"Technically, we're still married."

"But separated?"

"Yes."

"Mrs. Flood is currently living with Mr. Colborn, in fact?"

"Yes."

"So, has Mr. Oswin been bothering Mrs. Flood?"

"He wanted her to arrange for him to meet me. I agreed ... in order to get him off her back."

"Sounds like the answer's yes," commented Addis.

"Have you been to Mr. Oswin's house since Wednesday afternoon, sir?"

asked Spooner.

The key to successful lying is to avoid as many subsidiary lies as possible. It's a principle I clung to then, tempted though I was to abandon it. "Yes," I said. "Yesterday morning. First thing. He wasn't in."