Almost a crime, p.72
Almost a Crime, page 72
Kit Curtis the New Zealand racing driver was very pretty indeed. Tall, dark, gangly, with wonderful hazel eyes and freckles. Perhaps Lauren would switch her attentions to him.
He said a few rather dull words in his rolling New Zealand accent and then started to pull tickets out of the bowl. God, this was going on for ever. And she’d got to make her speech next. With Lauren and Tom looking at her and laughing at her. It wasn’t fair! It just wasn’t fair.
Just before she got up to speak, Minty began to cry: on and on. Zoë pushed the buggy backwards and forwards, kept saying shush rather ineffectively. It had no effect whatsoever. God, why had she brought her, why hadn’t she left her at home?
Octavia got up, went over to her quickly. ‘Take her for another walk, Zoë, if you don’t mind. She’ll probably go to sleep.’
‘Okay. Cool.’
She got up, walked out of the room with Minty. Every man in the place stopped looking at his raffle tickets.
Louise had waited outside, because there was nothing else to do. Minty was in the building and she had to wait for her to come out. Simple as that. She seemed to have been standing there for a very long time. It was very tedious, and inactivity was making her feel nervous again. This wasn’t going to work. It just wasn’t. She might as well go home. She’d just drive home and have a nice evening with her father, maybe get Sandy to bring Dickon over when he got back. Poor little boy, he obviously wasn’t having a very nice day. And this was hopeless.
And then Minty did come out of the building. Strapped into her buggy, half asleep, her thumb in her mouth. Zoë, looking at once stressed and bored, was pushing her. Away into the direction of the crowds.
Louise followed her.
Mrs Harrington had just finished stacking the dishwasher, thinking that Mr Miller hadn’t eaten much of his lunch, when the kitchen door burst violently open. So violently indeed that she feared an intruder; she swung round, startled, wondering wildly where the carving knife was.
It wasn’t an intruder; it was Felix Miller, standing in the doorway, a ghastly colour, his face clammy with sweat, clutching his chest and struggling to breathe.
His voice when he spoke was hoarse and rasping. ‘Please call an ambulance, Mrs Harrington,’ he said, ‘I fear I am having a heart attack.’
And then he fell down where he had been standing; his great body suddenly frail and less substantial.
After dialling 999, Mrs Harrington, who had done a first aid course, propped his head up on a pillow and made him as comfortable as she could; as he lay there, clearly in considerable pain, he lifted his hand, fumbled for hers.
‘Octavia . . .’ he said with immense effort.
‘I’ll ring her, Mr Miller. Don’t worry.’
‘No, no, don’t. Please not. She’s not at home – important day for her...’
And then he lost consciousness altogether.
The speech had gone all right; it had all gone all right. Flowers had been presented to Lauren by the committee; it was announced the raffle had made over four thousand pounds, everyone had cheered. Octavia was beginning to feel much better.
She saw Drew go over to Tom, saw Tom stand up, pump his hand, clearly congratulating him – on what? His choice of wife? She’d better warn him about the dangers of Tom getting friendly with wives. Then she saw Tom look at her.
He walked over to her.
‘I’m off to have one of these hot rides. They’re doing them now, before the racing starts. Drew and Oliver Nichols are very keen. Okay with you if I leave you with the kids?’
‘Absolutely,’ she said coldly. ‘You do what you like. Is Mrs Bartlett going to have a hot ride with you? Or have you already given her one?’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ he said. ‘Don’t be so pathetic.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘I mean your jealousy is pathetic.’
‘I don’t think so. Actually. I’ve felt pretty bloody silly, sitting here, watching you two practically snogging all through lunch.’
Suddenly he took hold of her arm; very hard. It hurt. She winced.
‘Don’t do that.’
‘You come over here,’ he said. His voice was savagely quiet. He led her towards the service doors, pushed her through them. They were in a lobby, full of tables and trolleys and trays covered now in coffee things. The waiters looked at them curiously. Beyond them was another set of swing doors; he pushed her through those too, on to a small outside landing.
‘How dare you criticise the way I behave,’ he said, his voice low but shaky with rage. ‘How dare you! What right have you to any say in my behaviour when you’ve got a divorce lawyer all lined up?’
She stared at him.
‘Well, haven’t you?’
She swallowed. ‘Yes. Yes, I have. I want a divorce and I want it very soon. I take it you’re not surprised. And don’t talk to me about rights. After the way you’ve behaved.’
‘You really are a cow,’ he said. ‘A self-righteous cow.’
‘Tom, this is ridiculous,’ she said. ‘We have guests to see to, this is not the place—’
‘No, I don’t suppose it is,’ he said. ‘There have been other far more suitable places, but this will have to do. God, I can’t believe you did that, saw a solicitor without telling me. Whatever I did or didn’t do, you owed me that. Well, didn’t you? Answer me.’
‘Yes. Yes, I did,’ she said, remorse of a sort hitting her, ‘and I was going to, but—’
‘But you didn’t. Why not? Why the fuck not?’
‘Because – well, because . . .’
‘God, you’re pathetic,’ he said. ‘Cowardly as well as a cow. A cowardly cow. Have you told her what happened last week? Your solicitor?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know what I mean. Your magnificent performance in bed. Our bed.’
She looked back into the building. There was no one there in the lobby. Beyond it, people were finishing their lunch, not sure quite what was happening next, probably wondering where they were, where they had gone. She was failing, failing in the most important day of her career. God, this was a nightmare; there were cars roaring round the track now, she could hear them, hear the rhythmic roar coming up to her.
‘No. No, of course I haven’t told her. It was – well, it was . . .’
‘I’ll tell you what it was for a start, Octavia. It was the end of any hopes you have for a quick divorce.’
‘Oh, don’t be absurd!’
‘It’s true. If I choose. Legally, as you may or may not know; that indicates that you don’t really want a divorce at all. If I told a court . . .’
‘You wouldn’t,’ she said. ‘You couldn’t!’
‘I might,’ he said. ‘It might be – amusing. You obviously want to be rid of me very fast.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes, I do. And I presume you feel the same?’
‘I don’t know what I feel,’ he said, sounding suddenly weary, ‘I really don’t. I wish I did. I – oh, God, there’s Oliver Nichols. I must go. Do this bloody ride. I’ll – I’ll see you later, Octavia.’
‘Unfortunately yes,’ she said. ‘I suppose you will.’
It had to be now, Louise told herself: she might not get the chance again. While everyone else was still in the building, while no one else could observe her. No one who would know. The plan formed swiftly, with astonishing clarity; she pulled off the wig, tucked it into her bag, pushed a comb through her hair, wiped off the fuschia lipstick. Quickened her step, walked after Zoë, caught her up, tapped her on the shoulder, smiled, said, ‘Zoë! I thought it was you! What a lovely surprise.’
The ambulance had come for Felix, had lifted him up from where he lay, placed him on a stretcher and carried him carefully out of the house. He had regained consciousness briefly; they asked him if he was in a lot of pain and he had said yes, he was; they had given him some oxygen and an injection of some kind of painkiller. Mrs Harrington watched, feeling helpless; he had been in dreadful pain as they waited for the ambulance, had tried to be brave, but every so often he groaned loudly. He had clung, rather pathetically, to her hand (crushing it painfully, but she would not have removed it for the world), and twice, deeply distressed and humiliated, he had vomited.
Mrs Harrington felt terribly upset, watching him being loaded into the ambulance like a large piece of furniture. Poor man; it had been a dreadful time for him lately. Hardly surprising, she thought, that he’d had the heart attack; first the trouble with his daughter, the upset with Mrs Muirhead, all the business worries. She felt dreadfully guilty about his supper last night: it couldn’t have helped, full of cholesterol. She usually tried to watch his diet, but had cooked it specially for him, comfort food, she had thought. Comfort food indeed!
Back in the house she made herself a strong cup of sweet tea and sat down. She felt dreadful. She looked at the clock; nearly three. It seemed terrible not to let Octavia know. She’d want to know, surely, whatever her father said. On the other hand, she didn’t want to upset him. That was the last thing to do with coronary patients, she knew that. And it was true, of course, Octavia was somewhere in the wilds of the countryside, with this car racing day. Mr Miller had told her about it, had been so proud of Octavia.
‘She’s doing so well with that company of hers,’ he had said, ‘really extremely well.’
She had no idea where she was anyway: she couldn’t contact her even if she’d wanted to. She supposed she had a mobile phone, but she had no idea of the number. Perhaps she could find it, perhaps Mr Miller had a note of it. Mrs Harrington went into the study, found Felix’s address book. He had all Octavia’s other numbers – the cottage, the house, the office – but not that one. Maybe that was a sign.
But then she thought of Octavia’s grief if anything should happen to her beloved father, if she wasn’t there; and thought of him all alone in the hospital, nobody to be with him, nobody he cared about. If only Mrs Muirhead – and then she remembered. Mrs Muirhead had phoned that day; had said she would see Mr Miller that night. At the committee meeting. They had obviously cleared things up between them, to a degree at least. She would ring Mrs Muirhead, tell her. She would know what to do about Octavia. She would probably want to go to the hospital herself . . .
Tom sat in the car and gripped the bar just above his head. It was a very tight fit; he was jammed against Kit. The helmet he was wearing was also a very tight fit; it felt as if it was crushing into his skull. In the mood he was in, that was quite welcome.
‘Okay,’ said Kit, ‘here we go. I’m going to go round the track once or twice, see how we get on; then I’ll accelerate. We’ll be doing about a hundred and twenty, ninety on the corners. It’ll feel more though because we’re so low on the ground.’
They moved off: slowly through the paddock, gathering speed on the hill. Up the hill again, round the first curve, a comparably gentle one, then back into the straight and down the hill, and then a bend of incredible ferocity. The sensation was extraordinary, of speed, of pressure, of excitement, of – absurdly, for what could happen? – fear. The car vibrated violently all the time, he was shaken it seemed into his bones; he gripped the bar, swallowed. Down round, up the straight, then the fierce angular bend: and then again and then again. It was not like driving at all, it was like in some way flying through the earth, he had become part of it, part of the speed and the surface and the tension. Five times they went round; he looked at the speedometer: almost a hundred now on the vicious curve, a hundred and thirty on the straight. He was beginning to feel very sick, very dizzy; he clung visually to the track, tried not to look to left or right. And then at last, at last they were slowing, slowing to a feeble eighty, seventy, fifty, thirty – grinning, pulling off the tight helmet, climbing out, standing on legs that were weak, trembling, looking for Oliver Nichols, his partner in the adventure: but Nichols wasn’t there, Octavia was there, ashen, her eyes huge, somehow sunk into her face, and she rushed over to him and pulled at his arm and said, her voice hysterical, raw with terror, ‘Tom, Tom . . .’ and ‘What is it?’ he said. ‘Whatever is it?’ and ‘It’s Minty,’ she said, ‘it’s Minty, she’s gone. Louise has taken her.’
It took a while for him to understand what had actually happened, that Louise had actually stolen Minty, kidnapped her. Or so Octavia was saying, gasping out in between sobs; it just didn’t seem to be possible. He felt he was in the car again, back on the track, dizzy, sick, confused; Zoë must have just wandered off with her, he said to her, his mind refusing to engage in this new horror, this new latest episode in his love affair turned horror story; that’s no problem, we just go to the BBC tower, ask them to make an announcement, someone will have her, don’t be silly, calm down.
But no, no, she had said, no, you don’t understand. Louise is here, she has Minty, she stole her from Zoë; now how could she have done that, he said, how could she possibly be here, she’s ill, she’s in a nursing home in Bath.
But gradually the foolish, hysterical lie had become sober, horrible truth. Louise had been, was there; she had gone up to Zoë, talked to her, been friendly, so friendly, asked what she was doing, said where was Dickson, she must go and find him, she’d suddenly decided to come, maybe they could have a cup of tea first, she and Zoë, and Zoë had said yes, why not, as you would; and they’d gone to a café and Louise had said I’ll wait here with Minty, you go and get the tea, and Zoë had gone up to the counter and bought two cups of tea, and when she came back, Minty and Louise were gone.
‘I thought at first she must be somewhere else,’ said Zoë, who had been waiting a few yards behind Octavia, white and shaking; they were standing, the three of them, frozen with fear. ‘I thought she’d gone to sit on the grass or something, so I looked, you know, for a bit, wasted time, I suppose. Oh, God, I’m so sorry, so dreadfully sorry, I feel so terrible.’
‘No, you mustn’t,’ Tom said soberly. ‘Anyone would have done the same. I would. You didn’t know she’d been – ill?’
‘No, not really. I knew there was some – problem.’ She looked awkwardly at Octavia. ‘I’d kind of gathered it from Mum, but not that she was ill. She seemed so normal today, she was so nice, asked me if I was still going to Oz, said she had friends in Sydney. I did think she was wearing some rather odd clothes, but – oh, God. God, I wish Mum was here . . .’
She started to cry and Octavia put her arm round her. ‘It’s all right, Zoë. It’s not your fault.’
‘It is, it is. I – God, I feel so stupid, so . . .’
‘We must get an announcement put out,’ said Tom, ‘and have the gates closed. At once.’
‘We’ve told the police,’ said Octavia dully. ‘They’re putting out an announcement. In fact – yes, listen.’
‘Ladies and gentlemen. If I could have your attention, please. A baby is missing. Name Araminta Fleming, known as Minty, aged ten months, dark hair, blue eyes, wearing a pink dress. Probably in a baby buggy. If you have seen her, or if you’ve found her, if you are looking after her . . .’ Looking after her, thought Tom, what an absurd phrase, but he supposed the police knew what they were doing, that they must be careful, tactful. And maybe Louise was just looking after her, maybe it had been a genuine error, that she had wandered off, lost Zoë, was looking for her. ‘If you are looking after her,’ went on the voice, ‘please bring her immediately to the control tower, so that we can reunite her with her parents . . .’
They were standing just underneath the control tower; they all looked rather helplessly round, as if expecting Minty immediately to reappear.
A large policeman came over to them, walking rather ponderously. That didn’t bode well, the slow walk. It meant they hadn’t found her. ‘That should do it, Mrs Fleming. If she is indeed here.’
‘Yes. Yes, thank you.’
‘Try not to worry. People are very good. I daresay she toddled off, someone found her, is bringing her over here even now.’
‘She couldn’t walk,’ said Octavia dully. ‘She’s too little.’
‘Can you close the gates?’ said Tom. ‘To stop her going out?’
‘We’ve got someone watching the gates now, sir, with a description of the little girl and the lady she was last seen with. Can’t actually close them, no.’
‘Why the hell not?’
‘It’s virtually impossible, sir, this not being quite an emergency.’
‘Of course it’s an emergency!’
The policeman ignored him. ‘And other people are still arriving, all the time.’
‘And my daughter meanwhile gets kidnapped? I’m not very impressed. I do warn you, I shall hold you responsible if—’
‘Let’s all just look for her,’ said Octavia. She was very pale still, but oddly calm. ‘It’s true, we don’t yet know how much of an emergency it is. Tom, you stay here, just in case. Zoë, you go back towards the building. I’ll go the other way.’
‘And we have people looking for her as well, of course,’ said the policeman. ‘All our people and the Brands Hatch security guards as well, all on the alert.’
‘Yes. Yes, all right,’ said Tom. ‘Where are the other children?’
‘Lauren and Drew have them.’
‘Dickon as well?’
‘Yes,’ said Octavia very quietly.
Octavia set off down in the direction of the restaurant; walking first forwards, then backwards, so that she could keep looking all around her. The crowds were thick; she kept bumping into people. At first she apologised, then became angry with them, simply for being there, for being in her way, for keeping her from looking, from finding Minty. The day itself had become nightmarish; the screaming of the cars on the track, the endless announcements, inaudibly loud, the crowds, the smell of oil and petrol and hot dogs and chips. She felt sick, utterly alone; she began to hallucinate, to see Minty, to see Louise, walking towards her. Twice she saw Minty’s dark curls over the top of a buggy, rushed forward, crying, ‘Minty Minty,’ only to see a puzzled face, a strange baby. And she saw Louise, saw golden flowing hair, a slender graceful body, long slim legs, ran after her too, wanting to shake her, hit her, grab Minty back: only each time it wasn’t Louise, simply another blonde, without her lovely face, without her crazy, evil mind.
