Sue for Mercy Page 8

  Sobbing as if distraught, a strange woman picked up the rug, draped it round my shoulders and secured it in place with a safety pin. It fell nearly to the ground around me, hiding my bonds.

  Still wheezing, the man began to push me down the alley away from the house. The woman picked up my handbag and ran ahead, delving into it. I tottered and fell, making animal noises, trying to thresh myself free. He didn’t speak. He cuffed me over the head twice, deliberately, and then urged me forward with a boot at the back of my bound knees. I was crying myself when I stumbled, the very picture of a decrepit old lady, out on to the road which lay parallel to the one in which I lived. My own Mini was waiting for us, with the strange woman in the driving seat. My handbag was under the dashboard. The man pulled forward the passenger seat and pushed me into the back of my car, and as he did so, Julian and Bianca Brenner drove up behind us. The dark man gave them the thumbs-up sign, and we drove off in convoy.

  I remembered Charles saying, “It’s only a very slight risk!”

  The Brenners’ house was large and well kept. Both cars were driven into a cavernous garage. I was hauled out, my legs were unstrapped, and I was propelled through a covered way into a well-designed kitchen and from there into a big living-room. By that time I was in a bad way. Bianca looked amused as she stripped off the balaclava helmet and scarf, and teased cotton wool from my mouth. Julian went straight to an enormous old French armoire in one corner of the room, and began pouring out drinks. Behind me a grandfather clock ticked, and chimed eight; the clock Charles had told me about, that he had heard chiming when he was being tortured in this very room. A wide oak staircase stretched up in front of me to a minstrel’s gallery which gave access to the master bedroom and the guest wing. Architect-designed, the living-room was the focal point of the house. From floor to ceiling was nearer fifty feet than forty, and the illusion of height had been enhanced by the glitter of a chandelier suspended on chains from the oak-beams of the roof far above. A pair of giant settees flanked the fireplace, upholstered in chintz, a colour television set lurked in one corner, and the floor was smothered from wall to wall with a heavy white carpet.

  “Robert here!” The dark man was at the telephone. He was wheezing still, and feeling in his pocket for an inhaler. “We’ve got your girl, Charles. We expect to see you here in half an hour.” He didn’t wait for a reply, but put the phone down. “My allergy!” he complained. “You ought to have let me cover the front of the house. You might have known she’d make a break for it.”

  The other woman, who was presumably Mrs. Ruth Maudsley, still looked as if she felt like crying. She avoided my eye, fiddling with her hair.

  “Come upstairs and get yourself cleaned up,” Bianca ordered me. She picked up a suitcase which I recognised as one of mine, and gestured me towards the stairs. I went up them, feeling like crying myself. Bianca didn’t unbind my wrists or release me from the rug until I was safely in the bedroom — the one with bars across the window. She watched while I rinsed out my mouth and tried to make myself presentable. It seemed to amuse her that my hands trembled.

  “Was this really necessary?” I asked, when I could speak.

  She didn’t bother to reply. From her point of view, of course it was. She waited till I was ready, and then took me back downstairs. Robert and Ruth were already settled on either side of the fire, Robert inhaling to ease his asthma. Ruth’s tweeds were expensive, but didn’t fit well. Neither of them looked happy. Julian had changed; he looked as if he’d just stepped out of a window in Carnaby Street. Bianca curved her hand round a glass of whisky. Nobody offered me a drink, though I could have done with one.

  “Why is he always late?” demanded Robert.

  “Psychosomatic,” said Julian. “He likes to make a good entrance.”

  There was a rush of tyres on gravel outside. A peremptory tattoo on the door knocker. Bianca let him in, and with Charles’ coming, life stirred into the room. He stood as tall as Julian, but more solid; he’d put on more weight this past fortnight, and got some new clothes, a supple leather jacket and trousers. He was all in brown for once, even to the kid leather gloves he wore. He was tossing car keys in one hand. His eyes flicked over me without any noticeable change of expression and slid around the room, making an inventory of its contents.

  “I’m in a hurry,” he said. “J.B. wants me to rewrite his speech.”

  “You know what we want,” said Bianca. “Have a drink?”

  “A ransom for Sue — is that what you want? I might be able to manage another five, but...”

  “The odd hundred or even thousand won’t help you now, Charles. You know perfectly well what we want you to do.”

  “No,” said Charles, and folded his lips hard.

  “Tell him, Sue,” said Bianca, flicking at my cheek as she passed me on the way to collect a refill. “Tell him exactly how we got you here.”

  My throat was still too dry to make talking an easy matter, but I obliged. I tried to make the recital as matter-of-fact as possible. Charles’ eyes were everywhere but on me while I spoke, and didn’t return to me when I’d finished. He was wearing what I’d privately christened his “stone face”. I couldn’t guess what he was thinking.

  “We didn’t have to be quite so rough with her,” explained Bianca. “But we thought a little show of force now might avoid a lot of trouble later on. And we have to consider poor dear Ruth’s nerves, don’t we? All that blood last time — it made you feel quite ill, didn’t it, Ruth.

  “Yes,” said Ruth, in a stifled voice. She felt for her handkerchief again. Her husband said something to her in a vicious but low voice. She started to cry again.

  “Well?” asked Bianca. “Do we spread-eagle her over a chair and start on her with the carpet beater? Or shall we just tie her arms behind her back and throw her down the stairs once or twice, for starters? Tell me, Charles — did you suffer from nightmares this time as well? If falling out of a tree as a child gave you nightmares, surely being thrown backwards down the stairs here produced the same result?”

  This time Charles did look at me, a spearing glance, gauging how much I could stand. I kept my head up and tried to stop shivering.

  “All right,” he said. Everyone but me relaxed. “Just what is it you want me to do?”

  “You know perfectly well,” said Bianca. “Substitute good for bad. Put the Will which we’ve prepared, and which Ruth has signed with a perfect imitation of J.B.’s signature, into the safe, in place of the Will which disinherited Julian. Then switch...”

  “Wait a minute,” said Charles. “Let’s see this new Will first. Julian is sole heir, is that right?” Julian produced a manila envelope from the armoire. Charles slid a Will form out of the envelope, glanced through it, and prodded it back before placing it in his pocket. “I see. But you understand that I have to wait until he opens the safe himself? I don’t have the combination — he doesn’t trust me that far. He may open the safe tomorrow, to take out some cash for the Birmingham trip, but then again, he may not.”

  “Then you must make some excuse to see that he does. Ask to check on something that’s already in the safe. You are inventive; you can think of something.”

  “Probably. But this business of switching the insulin bottle for one containing digitalin is another matter. I don’t think you’ve thought it through properly.”

  “He’s on three injections a day, isn’t he? The first thing you have to do is to make sure that he doesn’t take his first injection one morning — or if he does take it, make sure it’s pure water. That will ensure he’ll really be in need of it by the time he broaches this lethal bottle. Then all you have to do is switch bottles so that the next injection he gives himself will be a lethal one.” Julian handed Charles a bottle with a flourish.

  Charles pocketed the bottle. “And how am I supposed to explain away his fatal heart attack?”

  “Easy. You stage a quarrel with him. You could do it Sunday morning, as that seems to be the earliest opportunity y
ou’ll have, after putting the new Will in the safe. Then no one will be surprised when they find him dead — ”

  “With remains of a bottle containing digitalin beside him? That makes me suspect number one. I decline the position. If I go down, then so do you. Besides at Whitestones there are staff within earshot all the time; he’d only have to touch a bell to bring them running, get a doctor...”

  “How about this?” suggested Bianca. “Julian stages a reconciliation with his father, which will explain why J.B. has made a new Will reinstating his son as sole heir. Julian must get on the phone tonight to J.B., crawl to him, say he’s sorry he’s been such a naughty boy, that he wants to kiss and make up. He invites J.B. to lunch on Sunday — here. J.B. will accept, because he always does come round after quarrelling with Julian, doesn’t he? Then while you’re both here, you pick a quarrel with J.B. and storm out, leaving him reaching for his heart tablets and for his syringe. After he’s given himself the fatal injection, we switch the bottles back again, and all the doctor will find when he gets here will be the rest of a perfectly ordinary bottle of insulin. That way nobody gets suspicious, and Julian inherits.”

  “And I shall be in the clear? What about the cheques I’ve obtained for you?”

  “Who’s going to query them?” asked Julian. “I shall inherit, and I’m certainly not going to query them, am I?”

  “And Sue?”

  “Sue stays with us for the weekend,” snapped Bianca. “She will be at liberty to move around the house, but not to leave. I hear she’s a passable cook, so she can relieve me of that chore this weekend; in fact, she can cook us all a splendid Sunday lunch to celebrate Julian’s reunion with his father. Robert and Ruth can come, too, to act as witnesses to the reconciliation.”

  Charles was tossing his bunch of keys again. I wondered how his scars had healed. His eyes were on Julian. “This is your father you’re talking about. The man who sired you, and worried over you and rescued you from scrapes. You’re not talking about a rat or a newly-born kitten; you’re talking about putting down your own father!”

  I thought Julian looked a little off-colour at that, but Bianca whipped in to prevent backsliding.

  “This is the man who’s disinherited his only son without adequate reason, who has neglected him for years, except to scold him. Yes, this is the man who broke his mother’s heart and drove her to an early grave, the man everyone hates because he can’t string two civil words together. Oh, he’s an admirable creature! Well worth saving, isn’t he, Julian?”

  “Well?” asked Charles.

  Julian made a defeated gesture. “What I inherited from my mother — that’s all gone now. I don’t know how it went so quickly, but... then the money we shared out from the fraud case is nearly all gone, too. Dammit, I’m his only son; he owes it to me.”

  Charles tried again. “Why don’t you ask for a reconciliation anyway? He’d clear you of debts, perhaps grant you an income from a Trust Fund. I’m sure he’d reinstate you in his Will of his own accord if you went to him and said you wanted to make up.”

  “But I’d have to wait till he died to cash in, wouldn’t I? And there’d be no guarantee that he’d not change his Will again. Besides, I’m all set to go through with it now. If we change our plans and then have to set it all up again at a later date, it might not be so easy to...”

  “My strong-minded hero!” jeered Bianca, emptying her glass.

  There was a solid silence. I could feel dislike and mistrust in the air, but no weakening of purpose. The Maudsleys had shrunk into onlookers.

  “So you’ll do it, Charles?” said Bianca softly. I wondered exactly how much it took to make her drunk. She was enjoying herself.

  “Yes,” said Charles, and turned away to the door.

  “Stop!” cried Bianca. “The cheque — did you think I’d forget?”

  Charles stopped, one pace from the door. “What cheque?”

  “The cheque you brought with you, of course. You mentioned money straight off, as soon as you got here, hoping to ransom Sue. So you’ve got a cheque with you, I’m sure of that. You’ve probably had it ready for days, against just such an eventuality. Slipped it in with a bunch J.B. was signing at the beginning of the month, perhaps? Let’s have it.”

  Charles reached into his breast pocket, produced a cheque and gave it to her. She held it up for us to see. It was signed by John Brenner, but otherwise blank. Neither date nor amount had been filled in.

  “I do like dealing with Charles,” smiled Bianca. “He twists and turns and thinks he’s so clever, but he can’t fool me, no matter how he tries. Fill it out for us, dear Charles! On the table here, so that we can all watch you. I do so love watching you commit a crime. It will be the last cheque, if we get rid of J.B. on Sunday, so make it out for a sizeable sum.”

  I couldn’t believe it. Charles had told me that any money he gave them was his own, and yet that cheque had been signed by John Brenner. I watched with shocked eyes as Charles filled in the date and completed the cheque in the amount of three thousand pounds.

  “Generous!” commented Robert Maudsley, whose breathing was now back to normal. “Why that makes it just over the sum we gave your father for the firm, doesn’t it?”

  “May I go now?” asked Charles, handing the cheque over.

  “You may,” said Bianca graciously. “But ring us in the morning to confirm you’ve put the Will in the safe and fixed the details for Sunday.”

  “Oh — the phone!” Once more Charles stopped by the door. “I tried to ring you earlier on; there seems to be an intermittent fault on your line. I did report it, but...”

  “Then send a telegram,” said Bianca. “Early, though — we don’t want to have to deprive Sue of food and drink, do we?”

  Charles nodded. He was almost at the door. In a moment he would be gone. He had only looked at me twice all the time he’d been in the room. I couldn’t bear it. I hadn’t seen him for a fortnight, but the moment he’d walked in through the door that evening I’d known that whether he was being blackmailed, or was an out and out villain, I was in love with him. I called his name; I realised he didn’t want to demonstrate any feeling for me in front of the others, but I couldn’t let him go like that.

  The next moment I was in his arms, and he was kissing me. I hadn’t had much make-up on, and what I did have he took off in two or three shattering seconds. I was half off my feet, and short of breath when he swung me round with my back to the door, and whispered in my ear,

  “Phone me at Whitestones when you can day or night.” We changed positions, and he got busy on the other ear. “We’re almost ready — trust me!”

  “I love you!” I said aloud, quite absurdly, for he must have known it all along.

  “Yes!” he said, and hugged me so hard I thought it would be my turn for a couple of cracked ribs.

  Then Bianca’s face zoomed in, disagreeably close, and Charles’ arms slackened and fell.

  “What a crude technique,” she said in that barbed-wire voice of hers. “Snatch and grab! No wonder Felicity opted out.”

  “I must go,” said Charles, anxious eyes on me.

  “I understand,” I said, trying to get it over not only that I had received his messages, but that I did believe in him.

  “Yes, do go,” said Bianca, opening the front door for him. “It’s getting late, and Sue hasn’t even started on supper for us.”

  *

  If I had been tired when the Brenners and Maudsleys had taken me from my flat, by the end of the evening I was exhausted. Neither Julian nor Bianca ate much, but both Ruth and Robert had done justice to my cooking. I ate the scraps they left over, and forced myself to clean the kitchen before going to bed.

  It was an easy house to run; there was a hatch through from the kitchen into the dark-panelled dining-room, and a utility room on the other side of the kitchen, containing an enormous freezing cabinet — now only half full of produce — and a dishwasher. Somebody had spent a lot of money on the house.
There was every laboursaving gadget you could think of, and when I had a chance to explore the house, I found the same evidence of wealth in every room. Julian’s den, for instance, had its own television set and cocktail cabinet; it was a sad little room full of stale cigar smoke, with pornographic magazines tucked under the cushions of the biggest chair. Bianca’s sitting-room was quite another matter; panelled in french grey, furnished in Louis Quinze style, brocaded and gilded, it looked more like a show room in a West End furniture shop than a room in which you could relax.

  I don’t think Bianca did relax much — except with the bottle. She caught Julian leering at me as I pulled on the banister to help myself up the stairs to bed. She nearly choked over her drink. “Feel like trying her, Julian?” she asked. He went scarlet, and turned away to his den. She yelled after him that she was taking the bottle to bed with her in lieu of anything more potent. At that I turned my own head away, so that she should not see me blush for her — or Julian.

  Was his impotence at the root of her unhappiness? Of had she made him impotent by her attitude to him? Either way, it was a most unhappy marriage. I thought of Charles telling me he’d always felt the cold until he slept with me, and knew he’d meant something even deeper; that he’d never had a satisfactory relationship with a woman until he’d met me. At that moment I pitied the Brenners.

  “I’m not locking you into your room,” Bianca said, appearing in my doorway as I began to undress. “The front and back doors are double-locked, but that’s to stop burglars breaking in, not to prevent you leaving. You understand why, don’t you?”

  “I think so. If I don’t play ball with you, then you’ll leave the bottle of digitalin at the side of J.B.’s body on Sunday, so as to incriminate Charles.”