“Here we are, Miss. Watch your step getting down. That’s it. Now, watch the first step — that’s right.” There was the sound of a door being swung back, and then the strong odor of fresh hay. The rough boards of a barn were beneath her slippered feet. “There’s a ladder here, Miss — leads to a loft. It’ll be a bit tricky, but I’ll help from behind.”
The help consisted of a small hand pushed firmly against the small of her back. She climbed slowly, furious with herself. She should have been able to take the man when he first pulled the gun on her; if her reflexes had been up to par she would have, she was sure. Her shoulder, which had been maintaining contact with the edge of the ladder, suddenly encountered space; she fell forward and crawled to the last rung, pulling herself away from the danger of the edge.
“It shouldn’t be all that uncomfortable,” the soft voice said. “Plenty of soft hay. And it isn’t for very long. Just until tomorrow night. Late, probably, but that can’t be helped.” She could hear him move to the ladder. “And better stay back from the edge,” the soft voice warned. “It’s a bit of a fall from here.”
“Wait—”
“Yes?”
“There’s no reason for you to hold me like this,” she said, her mind racing, finally making sense of the business. “You must be the mon my Billy said he was workin’ with, the mon puttin’ up the cash.” Her voice became severe. “You’re making a bad mistake handling me this way, you know. My Billy won’t be half annoyed with you. He’s got a temper. My word!”
“I’m sorry, Miss, but I don’t much give three hoots in hell what Billy McNeil likes or doesn’t like, just so long as I get—”
There was a sudden pause, an indrawn breath. When the man spoke again, his voice was tight.
“You’re lying, woman! Bill McNeil never told you about me! I know Bill, and while he may be a fool for a skirt, he isn’t a bloody fool! Just who are you, anyway?”
“You know who I am! I’m the barmaid nights at the Badger, and I’m also Billy’s girl. And he—”
“And he never told you the things you say he told you! And now that I think about it, wouldn’t a pub be just the smart place to plant a copper, and a woman copper would be just the ticket to nab someone like Bill! A girl with your figure just a barmaid, indeed!” There was a moment’s silence; when the man spoke again, his voice contained the hint of a chuckle. “Old Billy McNeil should be damned glad I decided to protect my investment and pick you up when I did. You say he’s got a temper? Oh, he has that, Miss, he has that! And I’m afraid you’re very apt to find it out the hard way...”
Diana made her voice hard. “You’re daft, mon! We’re to split three ways! Now take these cuffs off, you hear?”
“We’re to split three ways, are we?” He chuckled again, and she could hear his voice come up the ladder followed by the sound of the ladder being removed. “Well, Miss, personally I doubt it.”
And I doubt it too, she thought, and lay back against a bale of hay, hearing the door of the barn dragged shut.
“A lovely island,” Wilson said appreciatively, leaning back in the passenger seat of the camper as Da Silva drove. “And that Remy Martin was fine. Not that I have anything against the island rum,” he added hastily. “It’s just that variety is the spice of life.”
“I don’t notice you drinking the local beer for variety.”
“There are limits, sir,” Wilson said stiffly. He looked out at the blackness of the ocean. “It’s also nice to have dry weather two days in a row. I wonder if it’s still raining in Rio?”
“Probably.”
Wilson stifled a yawn and glanced at his watch. “My Lord! It’s a longer drive back than I thought. The pub’ll be closed by the time we get there.”
“Still thinking of liquor, eh?”
“I was thinking about your meeting with the stately Miss Cogswell,” Wilson said coldly. “At which point we find out exactly what transpired between her and Mr. William T. McNeil earlier this evening.”
“We’ll stop by her aunt’s house,” Da Silva said. “Actually, I prefer to talk to her there.”
“A reasonable preference,” Wilson conceded. “She might well be preparing for bed, and a conference with Miss Cogswell in a sheer nightgown is something I can understand your enjoying.”
“You are so right,” Da Silva said, and grinned.
They drove in silence along the shore road, the cooling breeze from the sea pleasant after the heat of the day. Their headlights picked out the cluster of stone storefronts that comprised Brighton, and the dark, unlit façade of the Badger Inn. They swept on through, heading north toward Queensland, Da Silva humming lightly to himself, Wilson leaning forward, fighting sleep. The road of white coral twisted ahead of them under the probing of the headlights. A curve and they began mounting the slopes of Chalky Mount.
“Ah!” Da Silva said, viewing the empty lane. “At least McNeil didn’t decide to come and apologize after we left the inspector’s place. Or if he did, Constable Jamison is in for a bad time.”
“You’re just glad McNeil isn’t here because basically you’re jealous,” Wilson said, and yawned.
“I’m just glad McNeil isn’t here because we’d have to wait to get our business done, and you obviously need your rest. You keep that yawning up and you’ll have me doing it.”
He pulled on the emergency brake and switched off the lights and ignition, staring up the hill toward Diana’s house, noting the light on the porch. He opened the door and climbed down.
“Take a nap while I’m gone,” he said. “I wouldn’t ask a man as tired as you to climb all that distance.”
“You just saved yourself a refusal,” Wilson said, and leaned back, closing his eyes. It seemed to him that he hadn’t even had time to settle down before he heard the car door slam and the engine start with a muffled roar. He sat up to protest the racket and then was flung sideways against the door of the car as Da Silva gunned the car backward, shifted, and headed back toward Brighton.
“Hey!” Wilson rubbed his arm. “Did she slap your face? What’s the matter with you?”
“Diana isn’t there,” Da Silva said tightly, his eyes fixed on the road, his foot stabbing the accelerator. “She never got home. Her aunt’s worried and so am I!”
“But where—?”
“That’s a damned good question!”
He clamped his mouth closed, concentrating on his driving. The road spun beneath them, trees and dunes and occasional huts lighting up and instantly falling behind in the night. Brighton finally appeared once again; Da Silva slammed on the brakes and twisted the wheel, skidding into the rutted trail leading over the dunes to the beach, spurting sand as he jammed on the gas again. He swung onto the rippled beach, tramping on the accelerator, bouncing roughly over the uneven surface, and then clamped on the brakes, skidding to a swaying halt beside the police sedan. Da Silva was out of the car in one motion, moving to Jamison’s side.
“Is McNeil inside?”
“Yes, sir. Has been for” — Jamison checked his watch — “it would be close onto four hours by now. Ever since he first went in. Just as I told the Chief Inspector, sir.”
Wilson, now wide awake, had joined the two. “Is he alone?”
“Alone?” Jamison seemed puzzled. “Yes, sir. Why?”
“Miss Cogswell is missing,” Da Silva said flatly.
“Missing?”
“The pub’s closed and she never got home.” Da Silva frowned and then looked up. “Can you call ahead? I want to have someone stop the bus up the line and find out if she caught it, and if so where she got off. And give me your flashlight. I’m going to visit Mr. McNeil.”