Red Crystal (45 page)

A person.

Jenkins
.

For a moment she couldn’t take it in. There was no reality to the blood, the ghastly open mouth, the silence of death.

Then she had a single appalling thought:
Henry!

She stumbled to the study door and, terrified of what she might find, looked in. Then she ran across to the kitchen. When she had searched all the ground floor rooms, she ran upstairs.

Nothing.

She called out, ‘Henry!’ But the silence was final: there would be no answer.

Finally she sank on to the bed and, trying to control her shaking hands, called the police.

Victoria thought: Let me die.

It would be better for everyone.

I’m vermin, I’m evil, I’m sick, I’m hateful, I’m a pathetic
murderess
…

There was no limit to her evil.

It was her fault the policeman had been killed, her fault Henry had been captured, her fault that Caroline would be crucified with unhappiness.

It would be better for everyone if she were to die.

The van went over a bump. Her head banged against the floor.

Good. She wanted to suffer. Let there be pain.

She cried again until the tears dried up.

Something nudged her leg.
Henry
. Trying to make contact with her. She was lying on the floor, facing away from him. She was glad. She couldn’t possibly look him in the eye. She was glad, too, that the tape was over their mouths so they couldn’t speak. The nudge came again. Hurriedly she moved her leg away. She couldn’t bear it. He was trying to establish communication. But he wouldn’t want to have any contact with her once he knew the truth.

She wanted to cry again, but couldn’t. She was too disgusted with herself.

Much later, after the van had been going for a long time, a sound made her open her eyes. Someone was singing.

Giorgio.

She imagined him, sitting in the driver’s seat, the same person who had touched her, made love to her … She had never tried to see him as he really was. She had been far too selfish.

Selfish, self-centred,
hateful
.

At one point the van stopped and there was a flood of light. The front door opened and shut again. There were the unmistakable sounds of petrol being put into the tank. Then they were off again, the van droning on endlessly.

She wondered vaguely where they were going. But what did it matter. It changed nothing.

She just wanted to die.

After a long time the van started twisting and turning and Victoria was thrown against the side of the seat, then back against Henry. Instantly she recoiled and tried to jam herself against the seat. A few minutes later there was a great lurch, then a bump and the back of the van did a violent leap. Victoria’s head crashed into the floor. Another lurch and bump. The violent movements continued until Victoria was forced to hold her head clear of the floor.

The engine note changed to a lower pitch and they seemed to be going down a hill. There were several more lurches and the van climbed. Suddenly it ground to a halt.

The engine was turned off. The silence was abrupt and complete.

Then it was broken by a familiar sound: the distinctive high-pitched whine of the Mini. This came nearer, then stopped.

Doors were opened and closed. There were voices.

The rear doors of the van were unlatched and swung open with a loud squeak.

She felt Henry being pulled out from beside her. Then a hand grabbed her foot and pulled her roughly across the floor. She was twisted over on to her face so that, when she was half out, her feet fell to the ground.

‘Stand up!’ It was the woman’s voice.

A hard object stabbed at her back, then a hand took her shoulder and pulled her upright.

Reluctantly she made the effort to stand.

Suddenly she tensed.

It was the sounds she recognized first: the murmuring of branches, the rustling of dead leaves, the crunch of the gravel underfoot. The unmistakable scent of damp fertile earth hung on the air.

She jerked her head up.

The shape of the farmhouse loomed black against the night, silhouetted against the pale light of a million stars.

T
HE ROAD WAS
jammed with parked cars. Nick drove past the brightly lit house and found a space further along. As he walked back an ambulance pulled out of the driveway and came towards him. The driver was in no hurry; they never were when it was a body.

Nick watched it pass and thought: Poor bastard.

At the entrance to the driveway a group of uniformed men were standing guard. As Nick approached, a TV crew came screaming up in a van and wound down their window. The sergeant in charge shook his head firmly. ‘Complete embargo on this one, lads. Off you go.’

The newsmen nodded as if a story had been too much to hope for anyway, and drove off.

Nick showed his warrant card and walked up to the house.

He showed it again at the door and went in. The spacious hall was buzzing with men, standing in groups talking or walking desultorily around the sides. No one went near the centre of the room. Here an enormous patch of dried blood sat obscenely on the beautifully polished floor and, to one side of it, an outline of a body had been drawn in chalk.

Nick dragged his eyes away and looked around for one of Kershaw’s team. A door opened and a group of men came out of an adjoining room. The first was Straughan, the second the head of Special Branch, Deputy Assistant Commissioner Norris, the third Ker-shaw, and then some very senior men indeed: the Assistant Commissioner Crime, and finally the Commissioner himself, Sir Peter McCabe. The Commissioner looked very grim. It was hardly surprising: he had buried his wife that afternoon.

Nick was overwhelmed by a sense of despair. He already felt a crushing guilt. This bloody mess got worse and worse. And all because he’d
never checked on her
. Even now he could hardly believe his own stupidity. The blow to his personal pride was bad enough; the way he’d been taken in by her. But pride didn’t actually matter. What mattered was his professional failure – and that was unforgivable.

He leaned back against a wall and waited unhappily for the crowd of senior officers to break up so he could talk to Kershaw.

But Straughan spotted him first and glared. After a few minutes the DCS left the group and came over.

‘Well, Ryder, what an almighty cock-up this is.’

‘Sir.’

‘I gather you not only
knew
this Wilson woman, but saw her as recently as
Sunday
. She must have been making bombs under your very nose!’

Nick winced. Salt in the wound. He said unhappily, ‘She was a contact, sir – I mean, I
thought
she was.’

‘
Thought
she was. Jesus Christ, Ryder, she’d already blown up the Commissioner’s wife and injured two other people – and you thought she was a
contact
.’ He put his face closer and hissed, ‘You’re off this job and I don’t want to see your face around until I call for you. Understand?’ The DSC was shaking with rage. Nick kept silent. It wasn’t the moment to argue.

But Straughan hadn’t finished. He pointed to the room he and the senior officers had just emerged from. ‘Lady Northcliff is in there. Waiting, hoping to hear that her husband is going to be allowed to live. Shall I tell you something? I found it difficult to face her, knowing I had such a blindingly incompetent –
idiot
– on my staff. I found it—’

He broke off as someone cleared his throat. It was Commander Kershaw. He said to Straughan, ‘May I have a word?’

Nick moved out of earshot and waited. The two men talked for several minutes then, with a last backward glance of disgust aimed in his direction, Straughan walked off. Kershaw came over.

He said quietly, ‘I’ve said I want to keep you on my team, Ryder.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘It’s simply that we’ve got to find these people.’

Nick nodded. He hadn’t thought Kershaw was doing it out of the kindness of his heart.

Kershaw rubbed his eyes. ‘It
is
the same bastards, isn’t it, Ryder?’

Nick had never heard this soft-spoken man use even the mildest swear word before. He said, ‘Yes. It must be.’

‘What’s going to happen next, then? Presumably there’ll be some kind of demand. But what will they want? Money?’

Instinctively, Nick answered, ‘No.’ He thought of Gabriella and her half-baked philosophies and the intensity with which she believed them. ‘Well, not
just
money. They’ll want
more
. I think they’ll want to humiliate us as much as possible. Publicly.’ Nick voiced an idea he’d had when he’d first heard about the kidnapping. ‘And I think they’ll want their friends back.’

‘Wheatfield?’

‘And Reardon. And perhaps the woman, Stephanie Kitson, too.’

Kershaw nodded. ‘Anything else, I wonder. What about getting out of the country? They can hardly expect to move around freely after all this.’

‘I don’t know …’ Nick ventured. ‘They’ve got excellent backup. The Wilson woman had an Italian passport, didn’t she?’ The agent who’d let her the mews house had been positive that she’d shown him an Italian passport in the name of Carelli. ‘If they’ve got one false passport, they’ve probably got several.’

‘But we’ve got her photograph.’

‘We also know she uses disguises.’

‘The woman at the delivery firm,’ he agreed reluctantly.

Suddenly Kershaw closed the subject. ‘Well, all this is conjecture. Let’s get back to the office and plan the campaign. By the way’ – he paused awkwardly – ‘the ACC is taking personal charge of the case. So when we get back it might be wise for you to – er – stay upstairs in your own office. I’ll call you when I need you.’

Kershaw turned to go but hesitated. ‘I told your boss that I wanted you because you were the only person who understood these madmen. I also said you were a good officer. We all make mistakes at one time or another, Ryder. It’s just a pity …’

Nick almost finished it for him: a pity that your mistake was so appalling. Nick said quickly, ‘Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.’

Kershaw hurried off. Nick stared after him, both cheered and depressed by his words. A good officer … Just a pity … God, he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

The least he could do for Kershaw was to give him maximum support. And at this precise moment that meant keeping a low profile.

He walked back towards the door and stopped for a moment to take another look at the brown stain on the floor.

He thought: Here an innocent man died. And I won’t ever forget.

He turned to go, then noticed another chalk mark on the floor beside the outline of the body. One of Kershaw’s team was standing nearby. Indicating the mark, Nick asked, ‘What was that?’

‘Jenkins’ pocket book.’

‘Was there any entry in it?’

The officer shook his head. ‘Nothing after six-thirty.’

Nick thought for a moment and said, half to himself, ‘I wonder why it fell on the floor?’

The officer shrugged. ‘Search me.’

‘
Could
it have fallen out of his pocket?’

There was no answer. The officer was giving him a cold look. Nick thought: Ah, I’m overstepping the mark – trespassing on detectives’ territory. Then he realized that this alone wouldn’t account for the cool attitude.

Of course: everyone knew. Everyone knew that it was Ryder who had ballsed it up.

Dropping his eyes, he nodded his thanks and left.

He didn’t care what they thought. All he cared about was getting that woman.

It was eleven. He would go back to the office and work. All night if necessary. He would work until he found something.

Victoria jumped out of an uneasy doze. She was immediately aware of the cold, which had slowly penetrated her body and chilled her into a state of half-sleep from which it was difficult to wake. The earth floor was hard and rough against her cheek. She moved slightly and felt the tape that bound her wrists chafe her skin.

She opened her eyes. A faint grey light was filtering in from the main cellar, giving shadowy outline to the deep recesses of the brick chamber. She and Henry were in a second, smaller cellar, which consisted of two arches supported by wide pillars. The thin grey light emanated from a ventilation brick high up in the wall of the main cellar. Somewhere outside, it was day.

A loud noise: a door opening. Through the archway she saw a block of light. A figure stood silhouetted in the open doorway at the top of the cellar steps.

Giorgio.

Her first instinct was to curl up tighter and make the whole scene go away. But the next moment a bright electric light sprang on and footsteps sounded on the stone stairs. Screwing up her eyes against the glare, she saw Giorgio walking straight towards her. He bent over and reached for her face. She jerked her head away but he grasped the tape covering her mouth and yanked it off. She bit back a cry. He moved off towards the other corner where Henry lay. She made an effort to sit up. She rolled over on to her back and used her elbows to manoeuvre herself upright. Her over-full bladder ached for relief.

There was the sound of tape being ripped away. Victoria forced herself to look at Henry. He sat propped against the wall six feet away. He was blinking rapidly, his eyes smarting from the removal of the tape. His clothes were dishevelled, his hair awry, his face smeared with dirt. He seemed older and somehow smaller.