Theft on Thursday (28 page)

“Oh, Jamie,
please
,” she pleaded, taking his hand and pulling him back towards her. He shook his head and went to sit down by the big marble fireplace.

She walked across the room and stared out at the garden. It was chillier now, and she pulled the French windows shut, struggling with the lock. Then she hunched up on the sofa and stared at him like a thwarted child. “Oh, all right, then,” she said finally. “I
was
at the stupid party. Max had persuaded me to go. Said they had something very special on. So I turned up, had a couple of drinks, and chatted to stupid Sharon Miller—who was, by the way, three sheets to the wind.”

Her eyes told him that was not all. “And?” he said.

“And nothing else,” she said impatiently. “Now come here, and let’s forget it.” But Jamie did not move.

After a minute or two of silence, Annabelle spoke again, softly this time, almost to herself. “Max made a sort of speech. Like a call to arms, or battle, or something. He’s very good when he gets going. But then it turned to a rant, and the others started chanting and stamping.”

“What were they chanting?” said Jamie.

“Well … um …” She took a deep breath and said, “It was ‘Fire!!’ over and over again. That’s what it was. I was frightened, Jamie. I tried to leave, but Max had locked the door. He told one of his oiks to look after me.”

“Where did you go?” Jamie’s face was pale. He knew what was coming, and realized he had no idea what to do next.

“The vicarage,” she answered. “I managed to hang back, pretend I was going to be sick.”

“And Sharon Miller?” Jamie’s hand curled round the
comforting shape of his mobile in his pocket. “Was she still with them?”

“Yep, right out in front, eyes all over the place!” The shadow of a grin crossed Annabelle’s face. “She had something in her hand, held up high. I couldn’t see what it was, but they all started a horrible kind of whispering. It was like one of their chants, but whispered. I suppose they didn’t want people to know they were there. Then Sharon threw whatever it was—it looked like a little ball—towards the vicarage. And then it started … I
was
sick then, but they’d all run off, and people had started appearing, so I hid for a while in the churchyard.” She stopped and shut her eyes for a moment. Jamie waited, knowing there was more to come.

Annabelle rubbed her eyes, and continued, “There were crowds of people and the fire engines arrived. I was trapped, so I stayed put until everyone had gone and the fire was out, and then I sneaked off home. Most people had gone by then.”

“That’s when we saw you. Going home,” said Jamie. “When you said ‘it started,’ did you mean the fire?” The light was going outside the window, and Jamie shivered.

Annabelle nodded. “It was so quick, Jamie. I don’t know how they got it going so quickly.”

They were both silent and still. Then Jamie said, “I’ll put some lights on. And get some heating going.” He looked out into the garden, and saw a black cat creeping along the branch of the apple tree. A sudden squawk and a blackbird flew off in alarm. The cat slunk away, over the wall. Jamie shrugged. This was London. Anything could happen.

Annabelle called from the kitchen that rotten Sarah had left nothing to eat. Could Jamie fetch a couple of take-aways from the Chinese round the corner? Jamie checked his cash, and thought he’d probably have enough. “Which way?” he said. It was going to be further than just around
the corner, he discovered, more than ten minutes away. But Jamie was glad of some air and walked along at a good pace, happy to be doing something useful, feeling he belonged.

F
OUR MILES OUTSIDE
L
ONG
F
ARNDEN
,
A SELDOM
-
USED
farm track branched off and quickly became rutted and muddy from an overflowing ditch. Down here, an anonymous dark green car moved slowly, juddering as it negotiated the rough surface. The driver peered through a dirty windscreen and frowned. “Bloody awful place,” he muttered. “Is this the best Max could suggest?”

His passenger, Sharon Miller, shivered, not from the cold wind, but with fear. She had been on her way to work at the shop after lunch, already feeling sorry for herself after her session with Mrs. M, when this bloke had pulled up beside her, opened the door and told her to get in. When she had protested, he’d said roughly that if she didn’t do as she was told, she’d regret it. He had a message from Max Wedderburn, and people always did what
he
told them. And she could call him Stan, he added, glancing lasciviously at her.

“Just for a minute, then,” Sharon had said, glancing up and down the street, hoping that someone would see her.
But there was nobody in sight. Then to her horror, the minute she got in the car, the man, whom she vaguely recognized from the party at the stables, had driven off at speed, with a squeal of tyres. Now they were in a barnyard, with no house in sight, and he was telling her to get out.

“In there,” he said shortly, pointing to the barn. “We have to talk.” By now, Sharon was in a state of terror. She was only too familiar from her novels with kidnapped beauties left to the predations of no-good villains … or mutilated so that … Oh my God, what was he going to do?

He turned her round, and then tied her wrists together behind her back. “Just in case you feel like doin’ a runner,” he said. “Now then,” he added, pushing her down on the dirty straw, “let’s see how much you remember of that night. Party night, Sharon … And shut that row, else I’ll make sure you never make another sound … ever.”

She choked, and was silent. “What d’you want to know … Stan,” she stuttered after a minute.

“Everything you can remember,” he said. “Starting with when Max brought you into the party.”

“I got given a drink,” she said.

“Did you know anybody?”

Sharon shook her head. “Only Max,” she said. “I met him at Cyril’s funeral. He was nice to me when I tripped over.” She was shaking now, her whole body trembling in terror. Was he going to rape her? How much should she tell him? She was canny enough to realize that if she owned up to remembering everything, he would have to find a way of silencing her.

“I enjoyed it,” she said lamely.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” he said, and lit a cigarette. “Such pretty hair,” he said, taking a handful and stroking it. He put it to the lighted end of the cigarette, and laughed when it sizzled. “Horrible smell!” he said, and took it away again. “Good thing hair don’t feel nothing.
Plenty of bits of you that does, though,” he added, and sniggered.

“I remember them making a fuss of me, goin’ on about my eye and sayin’ it had power, an’ all sorts of rubbish,” Sharon said quickly.

“Rubbish?” he said, his smile vanishing. “What else was rubbish?”

“Nothing … Stan … It was soon after that I began to feel funny. Not faint, nor anythin’ like that, but I couldn’t see properly. Everything was a bit fuzzy. I felt good, though. Sort of powerful, as if I could do anything. But that’s all I can remember. Just the feeling.”

“Mmm.” The man looked closely at her. “What was the next thing you do remember? Did you go anywhere after the party?”

Sharon shook her head. “Um … next thing I remember is my mum waking me up in my bedroom at home. I felt terrible. Real terrible. I’ve never felt like that before. I was screamin’ and shouting, and Dad had to hold me down.”

After several minutes, when Sharon began to think he was satisfied and she might get off lightly, the man said, “Right. Now see here, Sharon, you got to forget all of it, even the bits you do remember now. Put them right out of your head. If we hear that you’ve been blabbing anything about that night, everything you bin thinking I might do to you now … it will be done. See?” He waved his cigarette in her face, coming dangerously close to her eyes.

“Stop, Stan!” she screamed, and he put his hand over her mouth. She recalled what she’d said to Lois about the party, and began to mumble. He took his hand away. “I really don’t remember anything else,” she insisted. “When I heard about the fire next day, I thanked God I’d bin with you lot, well away from it all. If I’d seen poor Sandy …”

She began to cry bitterly, and the man sat back on his heels, staring at her. Finally he pulled her roughly to her feet, gave her push and said, “Get going. I’ll take you back
now, and don’t forget what I said. Any peep from you about the party or Max, or anything else, and we shall know. And you’ll be sorry.” He reckoned he’d done enough, and dropped her back outside the shop with a clear conscience. Max would be pleased with him, and that was all that concerned him.

M
AX WAS CERTAINLY FEELING PLEASED WITH HIMSELF
. He had drawn up outside the right house, checking the road name and house number. That was fine. So far so good. Yes, and there was Annabelle’s car, parked a good couple of feet from the kerb. Typical! Idiots like her who were allowed to drive were a menace—kids just out of school and with no idea at all. Stupid rich kids, whose parents bought them new cars as soon as they’d passed the test. He remembered his own first car, a small, battered Ford that shook and rattled, and had raised a laugh from the likes of the plumber. He’d had to work for this beauty. He patted the dashboard affectionately and felt good.

He cruised down the road and found an empty space, parked immaculately, turned off the engine and got out.

The road was quiet, a cul-de-sac of substantial houses. The cars already parked were prestigious, all the right names and models. For a moment Max felt overawed, and his confidence ebbed. Then he noticed an old Mini, with a jumble of kids’ toys and old newspapers. A terrier on the loose, nosing in the gutter, cocked its leg against the Mini’s dirty wheel, and a stream of yellow pee carved a path through accumulated dried mud.

Max laughed aloud and felt cheered. He walked jauntily along the path and stopped outside the house where he would find Annabelle. He checked in his pocket for what he would need, and opened the gate.

The door opened after a few seconds, and Annabelle said, “Jamie, that was quick! Oh … oh, my God,” and
tried to shut the door. But Max had his foot inside and pushed hard against her. All those expensive hours in the gym paid off, and he forced her back easily. He stepped in and closed the door behind him, checking that the lock was on. Annabelle retreated fast and had her hand on the kitchen door into the garden, but Max was there at once, wrenching her hand away and locking the door, pocketing the key.

He pulled her arm round to her back, and she yelled. “Shut up!” he said sharply. He pushed her through to the sitting room and, still holding on to her, closed the curtains on all the windows. Then he made her sit down on the sofa. As she tried to get up again, he pulled his shiny blade from his pocket and held it to her throat. She subsided, her eyes staring with contempt.

“That’s better,” he said. “Now we can make ourselves comfortable. Have a nice chat.” He smiled at her, then remembered his rotten teeth and banished the smile.

“You were at the party, weren’t you?” he said conversationally. “Talking to those chinless wonder friends of yours from Waltonby, the ones we could do without? And you stayed … to the end?”

She shook her head. “I was at the vicarage for a while, but I went home early. And anyway, you left before me. I saw you go.” Where was Jamie? Would he be back in time? She glared at Max, hating the smell of him, his cheap scenty smell. Yob. Still, better play along until she could think of a way out.

He menaced her again. “Never mind what I did,” he said. “It’s what you did, what you remember, that I’ve come about.”

“I know there was a fire, but I’d gone by then. I know some of your lot were whispering a sort of chant, but that’s nothing new. I didn’t listen. I was too busy being sick. Those disgusting drinks, I expect. So you needn’t worry. I saw nothing to bother you. What’s more,” she said, crossing
her legs and relaxing, “I couldn’t be less interested in what goes on in Long Farnden. Boring little hole. Only there to please Grandmother. She’s quite rich, you know. Worth keeping on the right side of. Lots of influence, too. So I’d be careful, if I were you, Max Wedderburn.”

“Your gran don’t frighten me,” he said violently, his accent slipping.

“And you don’t frighten me,” said Annabelle, and yawned.

J
AMIE HURRIED BACK WITH THE FOOD
,
ANXIOUS FOR IT
to stay hot. He turned into Annabelle’s street and walked swiftly along the pavement. The terrier met him, and sniffed the air. Jamie grinned and bent down to pat the scruffy little dog. “Not for you, old chap,” he said, and walked on.

As he approached the house, his eye was caught by a familiar-looking sports car, parked fifty yards up the road. He frowned, and walked quickly along to check. The number plate gave it away. Jamie had noticed it several times in the village, and knew who owned it. What the hell was he doing here in London? In Annabelle’s street? Suddenly Jamie was running, back towards the house. Then he stopped short. If that oaf was in the house, it would be best to get in without him knowing. Ten to one he didn’t know Jamie was in London. Annabelle was too clever for that.