Requiem (98 page)

Several thoughts converged on Daisy’s mind: how he would react if she refused, what he would do when he discovered the tapes in her pockets, whether she had time to hide them.

Although he wasn’t touching her, she gave a large involuntary shudder as if to slough him off. She realized she had decided what she must do and, feeling faintly sick at the thought of going through with it, she got to her feet and began to undress. As she unzipped her jacket and pulled it off she reached into one of the pockets and, grasping a tape, hid it in one hand as she passed the jacket backwards onto the bed with the other.

She heard him begin to rummage through the jacket. She slipped the remaining tape down the front of her jeans.

‘Bitch!’ he yelled suddenly, and she heard him rattle one of the cassettes. Then: ‘What else have you got,
bitch
?’

She went on undressing. As she unzipped her jeans she pushed the tape down the front of her pants. When she was down to her underwear she stopped and waited, watching his shadow on the wall as it swayed and billowed against the light, thinking of the times Maynard must have been in her flat, realizing he must have searched through her clothes before.

‘Bitch!’ he echoed. He stopped moving. ‘Where’s the rest?
Where’s the rest?
’

‘There isn’t any more.’

His shadow shot upwards, growing huge. She ducked but he was too quick and, grasping her hair, he pulled her down. Gasping, she threw her hands back to stop herself sprawling flat on the bed, but she still fell far enough for him to see down the front of her body.

He uttered a bark of rage; the sound reminded her of the dog. He gave her a small punch of fury and reaching down grabbed the tape from the front of her pants.

‘What do you think I am –
stupid
?’ The exaggerated singsong had an oddly mesmeric quality to it. ‘
Mmm? Stupid?
’

She sat up again, moving slowly so as not to attract his attention, then remained very still. She realized she was behaving like a victim. She made herself speak. ‘You were right about Campbell. He won’t have gone to the police – ’

‘
Shut up!
’

She could hear his breathing; it was coming in shallow angry pants.

She said: ‘He’s got form, he wouldn’t dare – ’

‘Shut up.’ She felt a movement of air on her back.
Don’t show your fear, don’t let him see.
The telephone was dropped onto the bed beside her. The hand came back onto her neck. His voice had a malevolent slow-beating rhythm to it now.

‘All right,’ he said, ‘call your friend, but no silly business!’

‘He’s – I don’t know where he is.’

‘Then you’ll have to
find
him, won’t you?’ On the
find
, he jabbed a finger in her back.

‘The number – it’s in my bag.’

He gave an exaggerated sigh of annoyance. ‘
Wait.
’

His shadow expanded and shifted; he left the room. While he was gone she stared at the phone, unguarded beside her. Tempting, but not enough time, nothing to be gained, too frightened: more to the point, no number.

He returned quickly, throwing her carpetbag onto the bed. His hand came onto her neck again.

Moving with care, willing her hands not to tremble, she found her address book in the outside pocket of her bag. She began to tap out the Ashard number and got one digit wrong. She cut the call. The fingers squeezed, biting into the sides of her neck. ‘Come on,
darling
,’ he hissed. ‘Get it right.’

She waited grimly until he eased the pressure, then wriggled her neck free. ‘Keep off me,’ she protested. ‘Or no call.’

‘Or no call,’ he mimicked in a piping voice. ‘Ha! You break in, you half murder Beji, then you start bitching. Jesus …’ He came at her suddenly, put two hands round her throat and dug his fingers briefly and savagely into her windpipe. ‘
Make the call.
’

She choked, bent double and coughed herself dry. When she could breathe again she pulled herself up and started again.

She did better this time. The number connected and began to ring. Jenny answered with a squeal: ‘Where
are
you?’

‘Never mind. Where’s Campbell?’ She heard her own voice, gruff and raw and strange in her ears.

‘He was beaten up. He was – ’

‘Is he all right?’

‘I think so.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘With Nick. He’s with Nick.’

‘What, in Scotland?’

‘No, London. Are you all right? You sound – ’

‘London?’ She hesitated. It was a mistake; a thumb pressed hard into her flesh.

‘Daisy? Daisy?’ Jenny was sounding worried.

‘Where are they?’ she managed.

‘I’m not sure. Look, is everything all right?’

‘You
must
know where they are!’

‘Daisy – there’s something wrong. What is it?’

‘I’ve got to find Campbell.’

She could almost hear the thoughts rumbling through Jenny’s brain. There was a heavy pause then, catching on, Jenny said briskly: ‘You could try Nick’s house, but you might have more luck with his car phone. Have you got the number?’

Daisy reached into her bag for something to write with. Out of the corner of her eye she caught the blurred outline of Maynard’s head against the light, and, more clearly, his left hand resting loosely on his bent knee. His hands were blunt, she noticed, blunt and very white.

She took down the number and rang off before Jenny could ask any more questions. She dialled the car phone. The line produced a strange screech, and she had to try again. Maynard made sounds of irritation, sharp sucking noises. His hand was clammy on her skin.

Her fingers were stiff; she dialled with concentration. The line connected, the number rang. It went on ringing. And on, and on.

‘No answer,’ she whispered.

‘Try something else then!’ The thumb bit deep into the sensitive spot at the side of her spine.

She still had the phone to her ear. As she moved to cut the line and dial Nick’s house, the ringing tone stopped suddenly. Perhaps, being a car phone, it had disconnected automatically. Her finger was moving to cut it off again when a voice grunted: ‘Yus?’

It was a moment before she realized. ‘Campbell? Campbell!’ She gave a shrill cry of relief. ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’

‘Daisy? Is that you? Where are you?’

But she wasn’t allowed to answer that, and the warm moist fingers closed on the back of her neck as a reminder.

The day had not kept its promise. The sky, which had been darkening as Nick gunned the car away from Victoria, became positively black as they crossed Chelsea Bridge and ran down the side of Battersea Park. Rain came suddenly, falling in long perpendicular lines like pencils, drumming loudly on the roof and bouncing off the bonnet in a dense ridge of spray that obscured the Mercedes insignia on the front and much of the road besides.

‘The
western
entrance?’ Nick asked Campbell.

‘That’s what she said.’

They reached the south-western corner. Here the black iron gates were closed. Was there another entrance on this side? He couldn’t remember. Or had she meant them to wait here? He turned right, along the western side of the park, heading for the Albert Bridge. The spray from the other vehicles had him slowing to peer at the line of parked cars and railings marking the edge of the park. Finally he saw an entrance, black gates again but open this time.

They drove in. There was a circular turning area, various roads spoking off, all of which sported barriers against traffic, and, to the right, a large parking area. Nick stopped on the circle beside a sign warning against stopping at any time, and looked through the trees towards the river. A woman ran head down along a path, dragging a small stiff-legged dog in her wake. A bent figure stood beneath a tree, huddled under an umbrella.

They went on into the car park.

‘A blue Vauxhall?’ Nick asked Campbell.

‘That’s what she said.’

‘What the hell does a Vauxhall look like?’

A slight shrug. ‘The name’ll be written on it someplace, will it not? We can look as we pass.’

‘What, in this?’

Nick heard the edge in his voice, and knew he was sounding unreasonable.

They rounded the circle and headed into the car park, a long thin rectangle of hard-packed gravel interspersed with deep potholes and landscaped with trees. The blades flipped fluidly over the windscreen at double time, the rain continued its pounding. There were a cluster of cars at the near end. Further down there was just a scattering of vehicles: a Range Rover with steamed-up windows, a Fiat disgorging dogs, a saloon of indeterminate make, undoubtedly blue – also, on closer examination, undoubtedly a Honda and unoccupied. The fourth car was a metallic-grey Volvo, the fifth an ancient black Mini.

Suddenly the wind came with a vengeance, picking up the rain and slamming it against the car, so that the wipers were momentarily overwhelmed. A car appeared out of the blur, parked at the far end of the parking area. They both craned forward. The car was canary yellow: the shape unmistakably that of an old Renault.

Nick sank back in his seat. ‘Too early anyway, isn’t it? How long? Ten minutes?’ He knew perfectly well how long there was to go. Campbell looked at his watch and grunted in confirmation.

‘Definitely the western entrance?’

‘That’s what she said!’ He could hear the tension in Campbell’s voice. He remembered Campbell’s voice as it had sounded on the phone in the CID office high above Victoria Street, when Campbell had called up from the front desk and interrupted Nick’s second meeting with Inspector Morgan. There had been a bark of concealed excitement in his tone, and Nick had turned away in case Morgan should hear it or see the mixture of relief and alarm on his own face.

Nick drove back towards the top of the parking area and pulled in at a place where they could see the western entrance.

The rain eased, the drumming melted into a mild tattoo. Only the wind kept up its racketing, spiralling the rain upwards through the stands of black trees, buffeting at the doors of the car.

Campbell broke the silence. ‘Suppose these people try some trick or other?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Suppose Daisy’s no’ there?’

‘Then – ’ The thought, which had been lurking with others at the back of Nick’s mind, pulled at him. ‘We leave it to Morgan.’

For once Campbell did not argue.

Pulling his jacket tight around his neck, Nick got out and walked up to the circle and looked out through the gates, then wandered a short way along a path towards the river. The mist had thinned and the trees stood out in ranks, like a waiting army. The thin suspension cables of the Albert Bridge were like long strands of cooked sugar falling towards the white haze of the river.

He returned to the car. Time was up. Absurd fears flew through his mind. That this was just a game for some sick mind, that the car phone would ring and he would hear someone laughing down the line and telling him to go jump; that Campbell had got it totally wrong and they shouldn’t be here at all but in Hyde Park.

Campbell made a sound. Following his pointed finger, Nick saw the car coming in through the gate. It stopped on the edge of the circle. The bodywork was dark; it could have been blue.

It started off again, rounding the circle and heading into the parking area. It was definitely blue. He felt a lurch of excitement. He tried to make out how many people were in it, but it was hidden by the line of cars as it passed down the far side and when it emerged at the end he couldn’t see properly through the streaming side windows.

The blue car continued towards the less inhabited end of the parking area and, executing a sudden U-turn, stopped on the near side, quite a long way down, facing the way it had come.

In his eagerness to turn and follow, Nick stepped a little too hard on the throttle and the wheels spun. He eased off but not enough to prevent the car executing a flamboyant turn. He was aware of another vehicle, a large saloon of dark but indeterminate colour, emerging from between the lines of parked cars and braking in plenty of time to let him pass. He accelerated away.

Passing the blue car on the far side, he made another much slower turn to come up behind it. He stopped five yards short.

It was a Vauxhall Cavalier. Its exhaust was spewing vapour. Its back window was rain-soaked but demisted. There was only one head visible above the outline of the headrests.

Nick put out a hand to Campbell for the documents.

‘But she’s no’ there!’

Nick gestured again for the documents.

Campbell glared at him. ‘
But she’s no’ there!
’ he shouted as if Nick were deaf.

Nick glanced away to the right and saw that the dark saloon was trundling slowly down the far side of the parking area. There were at least three people in it. He said to Campbell: ‘The documents! Don’t bloody argue!’

With a rasp of exasperation, Campbell pushed the roll of papers into Nick’s hand and reached for the door. ‘I tell you,’ he said threateningly, indicating the car ahead, ‘this fella’s no’ going any place till
we
say so!’

Paying no attention, Nick got out and looked back at the dark saloon, which was turning itself round and parking twenty yards behind. Jamming the papers inside his jacket out of the rain he walked towards the Vauxhall with Campbell at his heels. As he came up to the driver’s door, the window opened. Nick bent down and saw a dark-jowled man with hooded eyes and a weary expression.

‘Maynard?’ Nick asked.

Ignoring the question, the man drawled: ‘The delivery, is it?’

‘Are you Maynard?’ Nick pressed.

‘Look, I’m just the messenger boy, right? Like I take the delivery and radio through that I’ve got it. Right?’

Nick, aware of Campbell hovering at his elbow, said: ‘What guarantees do we have?’

The man shrugged. ‘Look, I’ve just been told to radio through, haven’t I?’

Campbell had lowered his head and was glowering into the car. ‘I know you!’

‘Shut up!’ Nick hissed out of the corner of his mouth.

‘The one at the airport,’ Campbell growled in Nick’s ear. ‘The one we followed.’