Play to the End (28 page)

I snagged my coat on a barb as I squeezed between two wires of the fence, but tugged it clear and set off across the park. Fifty yards or so took me to another fence. Beyond this and a narrow lawn lay the single-storey wing of the house enclosing the kitchen garden. I was on the opposite side of the house to Colborn's office quarters. It was quiet here. There was no-one about. But, then, why would there be? It was nearly dark and growing colder by the minute. The drizzle was thickening into rain.

I crawled under the bottom wire of the fence, crossed the lawn and took a squint through the nearest window. This wing had originally been the servants' domain, I supposed. It looked now to be used for the storage of gardening equipment. I headed round the angle of the building in search of a door.

The first one I came to was locked. I went on, down to the rear lawn, moving away from the house so that I could see into the room at the far end, from which light was spilling onto shrubbery, without being seen.

It was one of the offices. A young woman in a regulation black trouser suit sat at a desk, talking on the telephone as she tapped at a computer keyboard. I stood where I was, watching and waiting. Two or three minutes passed. The telephone call ended. She continued to sit at her desk. Then the door of her office opened and Roger Colborn walked in. He was more casually dressed, in open-necked shirt, jacket and jeans. They exchanged smiles and a few words. Then he was gone again.

Another minute later, so was I, back across the lawn to the unlit part of the house. Logic and architectural tradition suggested there should be a rear entrance about halfway along the wall, facing the lawn. Its outlines clarified themselves as I approached. With the building occupied, it wasn't likely to be locked. But I braced myself none the less, half-expecting to trigger some dazzling security light with every step.

Nothing happened. I reached the door, sheltered by a porch. I tried the handle. The door opened, without so much as a creak. I stepped inside, closing it carefully behind me.

What to do now? The question imposed itself upon me as I stood in the shadow-filled hallway, listening to the distant sounds of office life.

A telephone rang. A printer whirred. A filing-cabinet drawer clunked shut. I was trespassing on Roger Colborn's private property playing into his hands, for all I knew. My first and only thought since hearing that Jenny had gone away was that she hadn't really gone away at all; that Roger was either holding her here against her will or had, more probably, persuaded her to lie low until I left Brighton. But what if I was wrong? What if she'd lost patience with both of us and gone away to think? If so, the most I could accomplish by coming here was to make a fool of myself.

Yet there are worse things to be than a fool, I reflected. I'd come too far to turn back. I tiptoed along the hall to the corner, where it opened out between the stairs and the front door. The lights were on here and, glancing up the stairs, I could see lights on above as well.

The double doors leading to the office quarters could open at any minute, of course. I couldn't afford to linger. I swung round the newel post and started up the stairs two at a time, treading lightly.

About halfway up, I remembered the dog. Where was Chester? Docile or not, he was quite capable of barking. But he was Roger's dog, not Jenny's. With any luck, he had a basket in the office and was dozing in it right now. I pressed on.

There were lamps on in the drawing room and the door was open. I stepped into the room half-expecting to see Jenny sitting by the fire, reading a magazine and sipping tea, perhaps with Chester flaked out on the hearth rug But the grate was empty. Jenny wasn't there. And nor was Chester.

The door into the adjoining room, where Jenny had gone to speak to Roger on the telephone during my previous visit, was ajar, a light shining within. I took a look inside. There was no-one there. I doubled back to the landing and tried one of the other doors at random.

It led to a darkened bedroom. I retreated, my confidence in my own reasoning ebbing with each blank I drew.

Then I heard a noise above me the creak of a floorboard. I stood stock still, my ears straining. There it was again, quite distinctly.

Someone was up there.

The main stairs ended at the first-floor landing. There had to be a set of back stairs leading to the second floor. I hurried along the passage to the door at its far end and opened it. Sure enough, a narrow staircase led up from here as well as down the servants' route, in times gone by. I started climbing.

A door at the top led to a passage running the width of the house, its ceiling angled to accommodate the slope of the roof. A couple of dormer windows admitted enough light from the lamps round the main entrance below them for me to see by. There were doors off to the right at intervals, but none was open. Nor was a glimmer of light visible beneath any of them.

I walked stealthily past, pausing by each to listen. There was no sound either. Yet there had been a sound. Floorboards don't creak of their own accord.

I was nearly at the end of the passage when the lights came on. I heard the flick of the switch behind me. A split-second later I was blinking and flinching in a sudden flood of brilliance.

"Turn round." It was Roger Colborn's voice, raised and peremptory.

I obeyed, but slowly, playing for the time my eyes needed to adjust.

He was standing at the other end of the passage, having either followed me up the stairs or, more likely, stepped silently out of the first room I'd passed. The creaking floorboard had been a calculated effect, designed to lure me up there. That was obvious to me as soon as I saw what he was holding in his hand.

"It's a gun, Toby," he said. "As an actor, you should be used to handling some pretty good imitations of the real thing. But this is the real thing. And I know how to use it. I'm not a bad target-shooter, if I say so myself. And you're quite a tempting target, believe me."

It occurred to me that he might really intend to shoot. Fear coursed through me, followed almost immediately by a strange, calming fatalism.

Then logic kicked in. "Murder, with a house full of witnesses?" My voice was quavering slightly. I could only hope it wasn't apparent.

"Is that a good idea, Roger?"

"The odds are I'd get away with it." Roger smiled. "We're two floors up from the offices. Nobody down there would hear the shot. I'd make sure your body was found many miles from here, of course. I can arrange that. And I will, if I have to. I don't want to kill you, Toby. But if you force my hand, I won't hesitate. Is that clear?"

"Crystal." A little bravado goes a long way, I reasoned. I had to show I was afraid of the gun, not of him.

"Why did you come here?"

"I was looking for Jenny."

"She's gone away."

"So the girl at Brimmers said. But '

"You thought she might be hiding from you here. Or that I might be hiding her?"

I shrugged. "Something like that."

"And you thought you could just walk in and rescue her? You're a bigger fool than I took you for. She isn't here. She really has gone away. As for walking in, you ought to know that a security camera was tracking you from the moment you got within twenty yards of the house.

I saw you coming, Toby. Actually as well as metaphorically."

"Where's Jenny gone?"

"That's none of your business."

"And why has she gone?"

"The same applies. None of your business."

"What about Derek Oswin, then? What have you done with him?"

"Oswin?" Anger flared in Roger's eyes. He began to advance towards me. "How many more times am I going to be asked to explain myself where that little shit's concerned? You've managed to plant some suspicion some madness in Jenny's mind. Don't try to persuade me that you believe any of it, though. Just don't." He stopped about ten yards from me, the gun still rock-steady in his hand, still pointing straight at me. "You aren't going to steal her from me, Toby. I'm not going to let you."

"It's not up to you or me, Roger. It's up to her."

"We'll see about that."

"Yes. We '

"Shut up." His raised voice echoed in the passage. A muscle tightened in his cheek. I couldn't tell what his intentions were. I could only cling to the thought that killing me was about the surest way imaginable for him to lose Jenny. "Take your mobile phone out of your pocket."

"My phone?"

"Just do it."

"OK, OK." I slid the mobile out from inside my coat and held it up for him to see.

"Drop it on the floor."

I bent forward, tossed the mobile aside and slowly straightened up.

"Now, open the door to your left."

I stretched out my hand, turned the knob and pushed the door open. The light from the passage revealed nothing beyond a bare, linoleumed floor.

"Step inside."

A couple of strides took me over the threshold. By the time I'd turned back round, Roger had moved to cover the doorway. We were closer than ever now. But I couldn't see the faintest trembling in his grip on the gun. Whether he could see the trembling I sensed in my own limbs was another matter.

"Turn on the light."

There was no switch on the wall in the obvious place. I stared at where it should be, then noticed the cord hanging from the ceiling. I tugged at it and a fluorescent light flickered into life above and behind me.

"It's an old darkroom," said Roger. "My father was an enthusiastic photographer. He fitted this out to work in. No window. And a stout, lock able door."

"You can't keep me here."

"Close the door, Toby."

"I'm due on stage this evening. The theatre management know where I am. They'll come looking for me."

"Bullshit. You wouldn't have told anybody what you were planning.

Close the door."

"No."

"I'm prepared to kill you, Toby. I'd almost be glad if you forced me into it, to be honest with you. It's your choice."

We stared at each other for a long, slow second. I wasn't convinced he'd go ahead and shoot if I made a lunge at him. But Roger Colborn was capable of killing me. Of that I was convinced.

"Close the door."

"You're making a big mistake."

"I won't tell you again." He raised his other hand to strengthen his grasp on the butt of the gun. I noticed the taut whiteness of his knuckle where his forefinger was curled round the trigger. His gaze was cold and intense.

"All right," I said. "Have it your way." I closed the door.

A second later, I heard a key turn in the lock. Then nothing.

The room was about twelve feet square. There were work-benches round two sides and half of a third, with photographic equipment scattered across them driers, trimmers, mounters, light boxes, processing trays and suchlike. A stool stood next to a sink set in one of the benches.

There was a drying cabinet as well and an exhaust fan high on the far wall to provide ventilation. Sir Walter had done the thing properly.

That much was obvious. And his thoroughness had extended to security.

The door was solid. I've barged through a good few matchwood mock-ups in my time. Shoulder-charging the genuine article is a far cry from that. This door felt as if it wouldn't yield to anything short of a six-man battering-ram.

I opened the cabinet and checked the cupboards beneath the benches.

Empty. What I could see was all there was. I sat down on the stool next to the sink and bleakly contemplated the folly of what I'd done.

Jenny wasn't hiding or being held at Wickhurst Manor. I reckoned I believed Roger on that point. But I was being held, for how long and for what purpose I had no idea. The most disturbing reason that occurred to me was so that Roger could come back and deal with me after his staff had all gone home. Somewhat less disturbing, though depressing enough in its way, was the possibility that he meant to humiliate me by ensuring I missed tonight's performance of Lodger in the Throat. If so, his tactics were cruelly ironic. Only a few hours previously, Moira had urged me to avoid antagonizing Leo at all costs.

Absenting myself from the theatre without explanation was, in the circumstances, just about the worst thing I could do. And Roger had it in his power to ensure that I did it.

I ran some water from the tap and douched my face, then massaged my forehead in the absurd hope that I could somehow force my brain to devise an escape route from the trap I'd fallen into. No bright idea, nor even a dullish one, came obligingly to mind. Roger was right: I was a bigger fool than he'd taken me for.

And then, quite suddenly, just as I'd abandoned the effort, perhaps because I'd abandoned it, an idea did present itself. The sink. My best chance of escape was while the staff were still on the premises.

Roger couldn't afford to let them know he was holding me captive. But how could I take advantage of that fact? A flood was the answer, an emergency bound to attract the attention of everybody in the house.

I shoved the plug into the hole and turned both taps full on. The hot emitted nothing but a few dry-throated splutters, but no matter: the cold flowed healthily. The sink began to fill. I sat up on the bench opposite and awaited the inevitable.

Then the flow diminished. Within a few seconds, it had become a trickle. Within another few, it had stopped altogether. I stared at the tap in dismay. The water already in the sink was merely what the pipe this side of the stopcock had held. Roger had turned off the supply, guessing I might try just such a ploy. He was one step ahead of me yet again.

I held my head in my hands and uttered a mantra of curses. What was I to do? What in God's name was I to do?