In The Presence Of The Enemy (26 page)

She said, “Simon, have you noticed—”

“Yes. Someone’s been here. And not just to prowl about but to stay.”

“So you were right. About the vagrant.”

“It could be a coincidence.”

“I don’t think so.” She gestured back the way she had come, saying, “The mirror in the bathroom’s been cleaned. Not all of it, but a section. Big enough to see one’s refl ection in.”

She seemed to be waiting for a reaction because when St. James didn’t give her one, she continued impatiently. “He’d need a mirror, wouldn’t he, if he was making himself up to look like a tramp?”

It was a possibility, but St. James was reluctant to conclude upon so little evidence that they had tracked down the vagrant’s hideaway upon their first try. He went to the window in the sitting room. It was generally fi lthy, save for a quarter of one of its four panes. This had been wiped clear.

St. James peered through the glass. He considered the contrast between this flat and the others, considered the footprints, considered the hasp and the suggestion it made of a lock being used recently on the flat door. It was clear that no one was squatting here permanently—the absence of furniture, of cooking utensils, of clothing, and of food gave testimony to that. But that someone had dossed here briefly and recently…. The replacement of the carpeting, the water in the pipes, the complete absence of rubbish, all urged him to that conclusion.

“I agree that someone’s been here,” he said to Helen as he gazed through the cleared spot in the window. He saw that the window faced George Street. He also saw that on an angle, the window lined up with the entrance to the car park of the Japanese restaurant where he’d left his MG. He shifted his position to look in that direction. “But as to whether it’s actually your vagrant, Helen, I couldn’t—” He stopped.

He squinted at what he beheld just beyond the car park, one street to the north. It couldn’t be, he thought. It was hardly possible. And yet there it was.

“What is it?” Helen asked.

He reached for her blindly and pulled her to the window. He stood her in front of him, positioned her head towards the Japanese restaurant, and rested his hands on her shoulders. “Do you see the restaurant? The car park beyond it?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Look beyond the car park. Do you see the other street?”

“Of course I see it. My vision’s quite as good as yours.”

“And across that street, the building? Do you see it?”

“Which…oh, the brick building? With the steps going up? I see the front doors and a few of the windows.” She turned back to him.

“Why? What is it?”

“Blandford Street, Helen. And that—

through this window, the only cleaned window in the entire flat, mind you—is a very clear view of St. Bernadette’s School.”

Her eyes widened. She whirled back to the window. “Simon!” she said.

After leaving Helen in Onslow Square, St.

James found a spot for the MG on Lordship Place and used his shoulder against the weather-worn gate that led into the back garden of his house on Cheyne Row. Cotter, he discovered, was busy in the kitchen, scrubbing new potatoes at the sink with Peach sitting at his feet ever hopeful of a handout. The dog looked in St. James’s direction and wagged her tail in greeting, but she clearly believed that her current position at Cotter’s feet was the one more likely to meet with edible success. The household cat—a large grey called Alaska who was approximately twice the size of the miniature dachshund—lolled on the windowsill above the sink and acknowledged St. James’s arrival with typical feline ennui: The tip of his tail lifted and fell, whereupon he returned to the state of semisomnolence that was his principal characteristic.

“About time, if you ask me,” Cotter said to St. James, attacking a bad spot on one of the potatoes.

St. James glanced at the rusty-faced clock above the cooker. It was not yet time for dinner. He said, “A problem?”

Cotter harrumphed. He used his potato peeler to indicate the stairs. “Deb’s brought two blokes ’ome with her. Been ’ere more’n an hour, they ’ave. More like two. They’ve done tea. They’ve done sherry. They’ve done more tea. They’ve done more sherry. One of them’s wanted to leave, but Deb’s not having any of that. They’ve been waiting for you.”

“Who are they?” St. James joined him at the sink where he took a handful of chopped carrots and munched on them.

“That’s for dinner,” Cotter warned him. He plopped the new potato into the water and reached for another. “One of them’s that bloke from the other night. The one’oo came with David.”

“Dennis Luxford.”

“The other, I don’t know. Some bloke looking like a stick of dynamite getting ready to blast. They been at each other—both those blokes—since they got ’ere. You know the sort o’ thing. Talking through their teeth like they mean to be civil but only because Deb won’t leave the room and let them go at it like they want.”

St. James popped the rest of the carrots into his mouth and climbed the stairs, wondering what he’d let his wife in for when he’d asked her to get a sample of Luxford’s printing. It had seemed an uncomplicated enough task.

So what had happened?

He discovered soon enough when he found them in the study, along with the remains of afternoon tea and sherry. Luxford was speaking to someone on the phone at St. James’s desk, Deborah was nervously kneading the knuckles of her right hand with the fi ngers of her left, and the third man—who turned out to be Alexander Stone—was watching Luxford from his position at the bookshelves with such undisguised loathing on his face that St.

James wondered how Deborah had managed to keep him under control.

She jumped to her feet, saying, “Simon.

Thank goodness, my love,” with a fervency that told him how rattled she was.

Luxford was saying tersely, “No, I’m not giving approval. Hold it up till you hear from me…. This is not a moot decision, Rod. Is that clear, or do I need to spell out the consequences if you go your own way?”

Alexander Stone said, apparently to Deborah, “Finally. Now play that thing for him so we can blow Luxford’s game.”

Deborah hastily brought St. James into the picture. As Luxford concluded his conversation by abruptly slamming down the phone on whoever it was on the other end of the line, Deborah went to the desk for a padded mailing envelope. She said to her husband, “Mr.

Luxford received this this afternoon.”

“Be accurate with the facts, if you don’t mind,” Stone said. “That was on Luxford’s desk this afternoon. It could have been placed there anytime. By anyone.”

“Don’t let’s go through this again,” Luxford said. “My secretary gave you the information, Mr. Stone. It was delivered by messenger at one o’clock.”

“A messenger you could have hired yourself.”

“For God’s sake.” Luxford sounded monu-mentally tired.

“We didn’t actually touch it.” Deborah handed the envelope to her husband and watched him glance inside at the tape recorder. “But we did play it when we saw what it was. I used an unsharpened pencil to press the start button. The wood part, not the rubber.” She added this latter explanation with a flush, saying in a lower voice, “Was that the best way? I wasn’t entirely certain, but I did think we ought to at least know if the recording related in some way.”

St. James said, “Well done,” and fi shed in his pocket for his latex gloves. He donned them, pulled the recorder from the envelope, and played its message.

A reedy child’s voice spoke. “_Cito—_”

“Jesus.” Stone turned to the bookshelves and reached for a volume at random.

“_This man here says you c’n get me out. He_
says you’re s’posed to tell everyone a story. He says
you’re to tell the truth. He says you’re a real fi ne
bloke and no one knows and you’re s’posed to tell
the truth so everyone will know. If you tell the
proper story, he says you’ll save me, Cito
.”

At the bookshelves, Stone raised a fist to his eyes. He lowered his head.

On the tape, there was a barely audible click and the voice continued. “_Cito, I had to make_
this tape in order that he would give me some juice

’cause I was so thirsty
.” Another small click.

“_D’you know what story you’re s’posed to tell? I_
said to him that you don’t tell stories. I said to him
that Mrs. Maguire tells stories. But he says you
know what story to tell
.” An additional click.

“_I’ve only got a blanket, and I haven’t got a loo. _

But there’s bricks
.” Click. “_A maypole_.” Click.

The tape ended abruptly.

“This is Charlotte’s voice?” St. James asked.

Stone said in answer, speaking to the shelves,

“You fucker, Luxford. I’m going to kill you before we’re through.”

St. James held up his hand to prevent Luxford from responding. He played the tape a second time. He said, “You can hear it’s been edited, but inexpertly.”

“So what?” Stone demanded. “We know who made it.”

St. James went on. “We can assume one of two possibilities: Either the kidnapper doesn’t have access to the right equipment or he doesn’t care that we know it’s been edited.”

“The bricks and the maypole?” Deborah asked.

“Left in to confuse us, I dare say. Charlotte thinks she’s giving her stepfather a clue to her whereabouts. But the kidnapper knows the clue won’t help. Because she isn’t where she thinks she is.” He said to Stone, “Damien Chambers told me she calls you Cito.”

Stone nodded, still facing the shelves.

“Since she’s speaking to you on it, the kidnapper obviously hasn’t yet told her who her father really is. We can assume he provided her with the basic contents of the message she was to relay: Her father must openly tell the truth to gain her release. She thinks he means you’re to tell the truth, not Mr. Luxford.”

Stone shoved the volume he’d taken from the bookshelves back into place. “Don’t tell me you’re going to fall for this shit?” he demanded of St. James incredulously.

“What I’m going to do is assume, for the moment, that the tape is genuine,” St. James ex plained. “You ag ree it’s Charlot te’s voice.”

“Of course it’s her voice. He’s got her somewhere. He’s had her make the tape. And now we’re to crumble and dance to his tune. Jesus Christ. Just look at the envelope if you don’t believe me. His name. The newspaper’s name.

The street. Nothing else. No stamps. No postmarks. Nothing.”

“There wouldn’t necessarily be either if it was delivered by messenger.”

“Or if he ‘delivered’ it himself. Or had it delivered by whoever’s in this with him.”

Stone left the bookshelves and came to the sofa where he stood at its back, gripping it. He said, “Look at him. Just bloody God damn
look
at him. You know who he is. You know what he is. You know what he wants.”

“I want Charlotte’s safety,” Luxford said.

“You want your fucking story. Your story.

Eve’s.”

St. James intervened, saying, “Upstairs please. To the lab,” and then quietly to his wife, “You’ve managed heroically, my love.

Thank you.” She gave him a tremulous smile and slipped from the room, obviously grateful to be out of the mess.

St. James took the tape recorder, the envelope, and the sample of Luxford’s writing to the top floor of the house. The other men followed him. The tension between them was palpable. Feeling it like a throbbing fog, St.

James marvelled at the fact that Deborah had successfully coped as long as she had done with the two men’s obvious need to beat each other to a pulp.

“What’s this all about?” Stone demanded.

“Eliminating a few of my concerns,” St.

James responded. He flipped on the overhead lights of the lab and went to one of the grey steel cupboards, where he pulled out an ink pad and half a dozen heavy white cards. He set these on one of the worktables, adding to them a jar of powder, a large fluffy brush, and the small torch he’d carried in his pocket that day.

“You first, please,” he said to Dennis Luxford, who was leaning against the jamb of the laboratory door as Alexander Stone prowled among the worktables, scowling at the mass of St. James’s equipment. “Then Mr. Stone.”

“What?” Stone asked.

“Fingerprints. Merely a formality, but one I’d like to get out of the way. Mr. Luxford…?”

Dennis Luxford shot Stone a long look before he walked to the worktable and allowed St. James to take his fingerprints. It was a look that communicated his continued and complete cooperation in addition to his having nothing to hide.

St. James said, “Mr. Stone…?”

“Why the hell—”

“As he said,” Luxford commented while he wiped the ink from his fingers, “we’re eliminating his concerns.”

Stone hissed, “Shit,” under his breath, but he came forward and allowed himself to be fingerprinted as well.

Having taken their prints, St. James turned to the tape recorder. He examined it fi rst with the torch’s light, looking for patent prints that would show themselves when the recorder was held at the appropriate angle. He popped the tape from inside the cassette and did the same.

Nothing showed in the light.

While the other two men watched from opposite ends of the worktable, he dipped his brush into the powder—he’d chosen red as the most workable contrast to the black recorder itself—and dusted it lightly, one side at a time.

“It’s been wiped clean,” he commented when no prints became visible under the powder.

He went through the same process with the tiny cassette. Again, nothing emerged.

“So what bloody concerns are we eliminat-ing?” Stone demanded. “He’s not a fool. He’s not going to leave his prints on anything.”

St. James made a noise of agreement in his throat. “The first concern’s been addressed, then, hasn’t it? He isn’t a fool.” He fl ipped the recorder so that its back was exposed. He slid open the cover of the battery compartment, removed it, and laid it on the table. Gently, using a scalpel that he took from a drawer, he removed the batteries as well. These he set on a sheet of white paper. He took the torch and directed it both upon the back side of the battery compartment’s cover and upon the two batteries themselves. He smiled at what he saw. “At least not a complete fool,” he said.