Suddenly, he saw in his mind the utility room at Streatley and a scattered pile of boxes. Some words of Gerald Venables reverberated in his head. Dr Lefeuvre’s role came clearly defined into focus, and Charles Paris knew what Nigel Steen’s crime was.
As he walked up the stairs at Hereford Road, he was glowing with the intellectual perfection of it. Not the intellectual perfection of the crime-that was a shabby affair-but the intellectual perfection of his conclusion. Suddenly, given one fact, all the others clicked neatly into position. As he drove back, he had tried each element individually, and none of them broke the pattern. He was looking forward to spelling it all out to Jacqui and Joanne. Actual evidence was still a bit short on the ground (burning the vicious letter to Jacqui and the Sweet photographs had shown a regrettable lack of detective instinct). But he felt sure facts would come, now the basic riddle was solved.
The door of his room was open, the lock plate hanging loose. A cold feeling trickled into his stomach as he went inside. It was dark. He switched on the light. A body lay tied, gagged and struggling on the floor by the bed. Joanne. There was no sign of Jacqui.
He fumbled with the knots of Jacqui’s tights which had been tied cruelly round Joanne’s mouth. She gave a little gasp of pain as he tightened to release them, and then she was free to talk. ‘Two men
… someone must have let them in the front door… they took Jacqui…’
‘Did you see them?’
‘They had stockings over their heads. One was big and burly, the other was smaller…’
‘Yes. I know who they are.’ He cut her other bonds free with a kitchen knife. ‘Come on. We must follow them.’
‘Where to? How do we know where they’ve gone?’
‘I think it’s Streatley. And I pray to God I’m right. For the sake of Jacqui’s baby.’
XVIII
They roared down the M4, fifty miles an hour limits contemptuously ignored. They swung off the motor way at Theale, past the scene of Bill Sweet’s death, and on, through the dark roads, past Tidmarsh, Pangbourne, Lower Basildon, towards Streatley. About a mile outside the town, the Cortina suddenly lost power and pop-popped to a stop at the roadside. ‘Sod it. Bloody petrol. The whole case hinges on it, and I forget to fill up.’
‘He might have a spare can,’ said Joanne. But there was nothing in the boot. Miles’ odious efficiency was absent when actually needed. ‘I’ll have to walk the rest.’ Charles started off into the gloom.
‘What shall I do?’ Joanne’s voice floated after him.
‘Get the police.’ He stumbled on, occasionally trying a little jogging run. His body ached all over and the wounded arm felt as if it were dropping off. The strain of the last few days was beginning to tell, and he knew he hadn’t got much energy left. If it came to violence, he wasn’t going to do too well. He didn’t relish facing Jem and Eric (he felt sure it was they who’d carried Jacqui off).
Sweat trickled down his sides in spite of the cold. His clothes were heavy and awkward. Still the road seemed to stretch onwards endlessly, darkness replacing darkness, as he staggered forward. Occasionally a car would pass, fix him like a moth in its headlights, and then vanish.
Eventually he was at the top of the slope that led down to the little towns of Streatley and Goring, separated, like their respective counties of Berkshire and Oxfordshire, by the River Thames. Revived by the proximity of his goal, Charles hurried painfully onwards along the road to the familiar white gates. It occurred to him that being on foot was probably an advantage; a car drawing up on the gravel would be heard from the house. And in his position he needed advantages.
He opened one gate slowly, trying not to let it scrape on the gravel. Then he moved round on to the flower-bed at the side of the path, to muffle his footsteps. The house looked quiet and the same, except for a strange car parked by the front door. Again, as on the previous occasion, there was a chink of light from Marius Steen’s bedroom. Was it possible that Charles’ previous luck could be repeated and he’d find the door to the utility room open? Keeping to the lawn, he crept silently to the back of the garage. Moved in close to the door, and felt for the handle.
He closed his eyes, uttered a silent prayer and turned the knob. For a moment the door seemed firm, but then, blissfully, it gave.
He sidled into the utility room, treading with remembered caution, and reached for the light switch. The room had been tidied since his last visit. All the tins and boxes were neatly on their shelves, and, thank God, the torch was still in its place. He took it and started to put into action a plan that had half-formed in his mind during the run from the stranded Cortina.
He locked the door by which he had entered and put the key in his pocket. Then he turned his attention to the door that opened into the garage. There was no lock on that one. For a moment he stood, defeated, but then, memory working overtime, he moved into the garage, opened the door of the Rolls, and shone his torch over the dashboard. With a small grim smile of satisfaction, he went back to the utility room and looked at the power switches. He closed his eyes and memorised their positions. Then one by one, with a series of quick movements, he switched them all off. He scurried into the safety of the great car.
There was a murmur of voices from the room above, then the slow sound of people feeling their way downstairs and towards the garage. The faint glow of a match shone through the door from the house. Charles shrank into the deep upholstery of the Rolls’ front seat.
There were two voices, a deep slow one, and a higher London whine. Jem and Eric, as he’d thought. They went into the utility room. Charles heard the scrape of a match, then a muttered curse. With another prayer, he turned the key in the ignition of the Rolls. It started immediately. He found first gear and eased the great machine slowly forward until it hit the utility room door, closed it, and pinned it fast. Then he pulled on the hand-brake and leapt out.
The hammering of Jem and Eric followed him, as he rushed upstairs with the torch to Marius Steen’s bedroom. As he entered it, one of the prisoners found the switches, and the lights came on again.
The scene which they revealed was an ugly one. On the bed, Jacqui lay unconscious. She was on a sheet, naked with her legs spread apart. Another sheet was crumpled over her thighs. On either side of her, blinking in the sudden light, were Nigel Steen and Dr Lefeuvre. Laid out on a cloth on a stool were a row of bright instruments. A scalpel gleamed in the doctor’s long freckled hand.
Nigel was the first to speak. ‘Charles Paris… You are taking a very great risk.’
‘Nothing to some of the risks you’ve taken, Steen.’
There was a silence. Nobody moved. Then came the sound of renewed battering from downstairs. Dr Lefeuvre dropped his scalpel with the other instruments, gathered them up in the cloth and put them in his bag. ‘I’m leaving, Steen.’
Panic flashed into Nigel’s face. ‘You can’t do that. I need your help.’
‘No, Steen. Get out of this one on your own.’
‘You’ve got to help me.’
‘No.’
‘You did the other things for me.’
‘Not for you. For money.’
‘I’ll tell the police what you’ve done.’
‘I think that unlikely. It might involve too much explanation of your own activities. Anyway, I will have left the country by then. I’d planned to go back to Australia when I’d made enough. And, thanks to you’ — he tapped the case-‘that time’s come.’