Original Sin (58 page)

filing trays arranged as they were on the table. Wasn't there something else he must have thought of? It would be sensible to add another file to the existing pile, papers which Etienne might reason-ably have discovered, searched for, been interested in, a file which could have brought him up to the little archives room; an old contract, something relating perhaps to Esm6 Carling. Dauntsey could have extracted it earlier and kept it hidden misfiled among other papers ready for use. He would then have left, making sure that the door key was on the inside of the lock, taking the snake with him.

He could have worked without hurry, probably moving through Innocent House by torchlight but knowing that he could safely put on the light once he was in the little archives room. He would have gone down to Etienne's office and brought up his jacket and keys, hanging the jacket on the back of the chair, placing the keys on the top of the table. Of course he couldn't have replaced the dust on the mantelshelf above the fire and on the floor. But would anyone really have noticed the exceptional cleanliness of the room if the death had from the start looked accidental?

And the scene would have spoken for itself. Here was Etienne studying a file which obviously interested him. He must have been prepared to work there for some time, since he had come up with his jacket and his keys and had lit the fire. He had closed the window, snapping the cord as he did so. The body would probably have been found either slumped over the table or on its face, as if crawling towards the fire. The only puzzle would have been why he hadn't realized what was happening to him and at once opened the door. But one of the earliest symptoms of carbon monoxide poisoning was disorientation. There would have been no broken rigor of the jaw, no need to stuff the snake-head into the mouth. It would have been an almost perfect example of accidental death.

But for Dauntsey it had gone dreadfully wrong. The mugging, the hours wasted in hospital, the late return, had upset all his plans. Now, home at last and with Frances waiting, he had very little time and must act with extraordinary speed, and when he was physically at his weakest. But his mind was still functioning. He turned on the bath tap very slowly so that the bath would be about filled by the time he returned. He had probably thrown off his clothes and worn only his dressing gown; there would be an advantage in entering the little archives room naked. But he had to go back and go

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back that night. After the accident it would be highly suspicious if he were first in Innocent House the next morning. Most vital of all, he needed to retrieve that tape, that damning tape with its confession of murder

Etienne had listened to the tape; Dauntsey at least had had that satisfaction. His victim had known that he was doomed but he had, brilliantly, hit on his own small revenge. Determined that the evidence should be found, he had placed the tape in his mouth. And then, disorientated, he had obviously had some idea of trying to put out the fire by smothering it with his shirt and had been crawling across the floor when unconsciousness supervened. How long had it taken Dauntsey to find the tape? Obviously not very long. But he had had to break the rigor of the jaw to get it and he knew now that there was no longer any hope that this death could be passed off as accidental. Was that why he had later co-operated so fully with the police, had drawn attention to the missing tape recorder, even to the cleanliness of the room? They were facts which the police would find out from other people; it was prudent to get in first. And there had been no time to do more than hurriedly replace the table and chair. He hadn't even noticed that the table had been replaced with the other side next to the wall so that the position of the files was altered, or that there was a small mark on the wall which showed that it had been moved. And there was no time now to find Etienne's jacket and keys.

But what to do about the forcing open of the mouth? Hissing Sid, the snake, must have been an inspiration. There it was ready to hand. He need waste no time fetching it. All he had to do was wind it round Etienne's neck and stuff its head into his mouth. He had embarked on the series of malicious pranks to confuse the investigation if Etienne's death wasn't accepted as suicide. He couldn't have guessed how vital that ploy was to prove.

But leaving he had noticed Esm6 Carling's blue-bound manuscript on the low table in the reception room and seen her message pinned to the wall. It must have been a moment of panic, but it would quickly have subsided. Esm6 Carling had almost certainly left Innocent House before he called Etienne upstairs. Perhaps he had paused for a moment wondering whether to check, and then decided that this was pointless. Obviously she had gone leaving the manuscript and the message as a public proclamation of her outrage. Would she tell the police that she had been present or keep quiet? On the whole he

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thought that she would keep quiet. But he had decided to take both the manuscript and the note. Dauntsey was a murderer who thought ahead, even thought ahead as far as the necessity for her death.

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Frances slipped in and out of full consciousness, waking to a half-fuddled comprehension, then sinking back as her mind briefly touched reality, rejected its horror, and took refuge again in oblivion. When she became fully conscious she lay for a few minutes, totally still, hardly breathing, assessing her situation in small mental steps as if this gradual acceptance could make reality more bearable. She was alive. She was lying on her left side on the floor of a car covered by a rug. Her ankles were bound and her hands tied behind her back. She was gagged with something soft, she thought it must be her silk scarf. The car's progress was uneven and once it stopped and she felt the gentle jar as the brakes were applied. They must be halted at a traffic light. That meant they were travelling in traffic. She wondered if she could manage to dislodge the blanket by wriggling, but with her hands and feet tied found that it was too firmly tucked around her. But at least she could vigorously move her body. If they were in traffic it was possible that a passing motorist might look through the window and see the heaving blanket and wonder. Hardly had the thought come to her than the car started again and moved smoothly

on.

She was alive. She must hang on to that. Gabriel might intend to kill her, but he could easily have done so while she lay unconscious in the garage. Why hadn't he? It couldn't be that he wanted to show her mercy. What mercy had he shown to Gerard, to Esm Carling, to Claudia? She was in the hands of a murderer. The word, thudding into her mind, woke the terror which had been lying dormant ever since she had regained consciousness. It swept over her, primitive, uncontrollable, a humiliating wave, annihilating thought and will. She knew now why he hadn't killed her in the garage. Claudia's murder, like the other two, was to look like accidental death or suidde. He couldn't leave two bodies on the garage floor. He had to get rid of her, but it must be in a different way. What had he in mind? Her complete disappearance? A killing which Dalgliesh would have no hope of solving since there would be no body? She remembered

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reading somewhere that it wasn't necessary to produce a body to prove murder, but Gabriel might not realize that. He was mad, he had to be mad. Even now he might be planning, thinking, wondering how best to dispose of her. Whether to drive to the edge of a cliff and tumble her into the sea, to bury her in some ditch, still bound, to tip her into an old mine shaft where she would die of thirst and hunger, alone, never to be found. Image succeeded image, each more horrifying than the last. The terrifying fall through the dark air into the crashing waves, the suffocating wet leaves and earth stamped down into her eyes and mouth, the vertical tunnel of the mine shaft where she would slowly starve to death in claustrophobic agony.

The car was riding more smoothly now. They must have thrown off the last tentacles of London and be in open country. By an effort of will she calmed herself. She was alive. She must hold on to that. There was still hope, and if in the end she had to die she would try to die bravely. Gerard and Claudia, both agnostics, would have died with courage even if they hadn't been allowed to die with dignity. What was her religion worth if it couldn't help her to do the same?

She said an act of contrition, then prayed for the souls of Gerard and Claudia and, last of all, prayed for herself and for her own safety. The well-worn comforting words brought their assurance that she was not alone. Then she tried to plan. Not knowing what he had in mind for her, it was difficult to decide on alternative courses of action, but one fact was certain. She couldn't believe he was strong enough to carry her body unaided. That meant he would at least have to free her ankles. She was younger, stronger than he and could easily out-distance him. If she had the chance she would run for her life. But whatever happened at the end she wouldn't plead for mercy.

In the mean time she must try to prevent her limbs from becoming too stiff. Her hands, wrenched behind her back, were tied with something soft, perhaps his tie or socks. He would not, after all, have come prepared for more than one victim. But he had done the job efficiently. She could not wriggle free. Her ankles were as strongly if more comfortably tied. But even bound she could tense and relax the muscles of her legs, and to make even this small preparation for escape gave her strength and courage. She told herself, too, that she mustn't lose hope of rescue. How long would James wait before he discovered she was missing? He would probably take no action for an hour, imagining she was held up in the traffic or the underground.

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But then he would ring number 22 and, getting no answer, would try Claudia's Barbican flat. Even then he might not be seriously worried. But surely he wouldn't wait more than.an hour and a half. Perhaps he would take a taxi to number 22. Perhaps, if she were lucky, even hear the sound of the running engine in the garage. Once Claudia's body was found and Dauntsey's absence known, all police forces would be alerted to intercept the car. She must hang on to that hope.

And still he drove. Unable to see her watch she could only guess at the time and had no idea of the direction in which they travelled. She didn't waste energy wondering why Gabriel had killed. That was fruitless; only he could tell her that, and perhaps at the end he would. Instead she thought about her own life. What had it been but a series of compromises? What had she given her father but a timid acquiescence which had only reinforced his insensitivity and con-tempt? Why had she come so meekly into the firm at his bidding to be trained to take over contracts and rights? She could do the work well enough; she was conscientious and methodical, punctilious about detail; but it wasn't what she had wanted to do with her life. And Gerard? In her heart she had known his sexual exploitation for what it was. He had treated her with contempt because she had made herself contemptible. Who was she? What was she? Frances Peverell, meek, obliging, gentle, uncomplaining, the appendage of her father, her lover, the firm. Now when her life might be nearing its end she could at least say, 'I am Frances Peverell. I am myself.' If she lived to marry James, she could at least be offering an equal partnership. She had found the courage to face death, but that, after all, was not so difficult. Thousands, including children, did it every day. It was time she found an equal courage to face life.

And now she felt curiously at peace. From time to time she said a prayer, mentally spoke the lines of a favourite poem, looked back on moments of joy. She even tried to doze and might have succeeded if the car hadn't suddenly jolted her mind awake. Gabriel must be driving over rough country. The Rover lurched, rolled, struck potholes, bounded from side to side, and she rolled with it. And then there was another stretch, but less uneven, probably, she thought, a country track. And then the car stopped and she heard him open his door.

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In Hillgate Village James glanced at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. It was 7.42, just over an hour since he had rung Frances. She should have arrived by now. He did again the quick calculation he had been making during the last sixty minutes. There were ten stations between the Bank and Notting Hill Gate. Allow two minutes per station, say twenty minutes for the journey, and fifteen to get to the Bank. But perhaps she had missed Claudia and had had to ring for a taxi. Even so the journey shouldn't have taken sixty minutes, not even in the rush hour and in central London, not unless there had been an unusual hold-up, roads closed or a terrorist alert. He rang Frances's flat again. As expected there was no reply. Then once more he tried Claudia's number, again unsuccessfully. That didn't surprise him. She might have driven straight on to see Declan Cartwright, or had a theatre or a dinner engagement. There was no reason why Claudia should be at home. He switched on the radio to the local London station. Another ten minutes passed before there was the news flash. Travellers were warned of a hold-up on the Central Line. No reason was given, which usually meant an IRA alert, but four stations between Holborn and Marble Arch were closed. So that was the explanation. It could be another hour before Frances arrived. There was nothing to do but wait in patience.

He paced the sitting-room. Frances was slightly claustrophobic. He knew how much she hated using the Greenwich foot tunnel. She disliked travelling by underground. She wouldn't be trapped there now if she hadn't wanted to hurry to his side. He hoped that the lights were on in the train, that she wasn't sitting there unfriended in total darkness. And suddenly he had an extraordinarily vivid and disturbing image of Frances, abandoned, dying, in a dark enclosing tunnel somewhere far from him, unreachable and alone. He thrust it out of his mind as a morbid imagining and looked at the clock again. He would wait half an hour and try to get through to London Transport and find out if the line was open, how long the

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