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'Can I help you, Mr Fogg?'
Peter whirled and tensed. He hadn't heard the soft footfalls of Malcolm Hughes
approaching from behind. The schoolmaster must have been standing in the
shadows by the buildings, waiting and watching. For what? Why was he so bloody
secretive?
'Where's Gavin?' Peter's voice was terse, almost accusing. 'What have you done
with my son?'
'He left about a quarter of an hour after school finished.' Hughes'
supercilious smirk had Peter wanting to smash his fist into that florid face
and shout: You've no business letting him leave. You're responsible for him
until I come to collect him.
'Left?' Peter managed an incredulous croak. 'But - '
'Don't worry.' Hughes took his time, as though he was enjoying keeping the
other in suspense. 'He hasn't gone off on his own. He was fortunate enough to
be offered a lift up to Hodre.'
A lift! Jesus, hardly anybody went right up there into the hills. Maybe Janie
had come back early from her parents. Then why the hell didn't this stupid sod
say so?
'He's had a lift with Mr Ruskin in his Land Rover.'
Rushkin! Peter stiffened as a wave of cold fear passed over him and seemed to
centre around his heart. The Land Rover which he had seen leaving the scene of
the fire last night . . . The sheer malevolence in the landowner's eyes when
they had met earlier that day . . . And now for some inexplicable reason Tim
Ruskin had offered Gavin a lift home - or somewhere.
'Why? For God's sake, why's Ruskin taken my boy?'
'I never for one moment thought you would have any objection to one of your
neighbours giving your son a lift home.' The headmaster's thick eyebrows rose
and twitched. 'Mr Ruskin is a governor of the school and well-respected
locally. He called to discuss a small matter with me after school, and as he
left, Gavin was still hanging around outside waiting for you. In fact, I
suggested that Mr Ruskin should make a slight detour and drop him off at your
place. Surely there's nothing wrong in that, is there?'
'No, I suppose not.' Peter pursed his lips. Providing he's taken him home.
'No, nothing wrong at all. Thanks, Mr Hughes. I'd better rush back though
because my wife's away today and the house is locked up.' And it's getting
dark I
A mist was coming down, or was it the low cloud coming back, a mantle to cloak
more evil? Peter drove fast, praying that nobody would be coming in the
opposite direction on sidelights. The narrow lane seemed to hedge him in like
a nightmare Hampton Court maze in which he thought he was never going to find
the way out. It seemed unfamiliar, as though he had missed a turning somewhere
and would go round and round in circles throughout the nocturnal hours. And
all the time Gavin was - where?
Then the incline started to level out. Peter sighed audibly and eased his foot
off the throttle. Hodre; the small stone cottage by the roadside was picked
out in the headlights, a dark blue Mini parked on the adjoining grass verge.
Janie was back, too. Everything was all right, there had been nothing to worry
about all along. His own fears had escalated because he had let them run
haywire; like Janie.
He sat in the car for a few moments after he had switched off engine and
lights. Calm yourself, laddie, he told himself. The last thing you want Janie
to see is that it's getting you, too. It's all in the mind. But the phone call
wasn't. Neither was the fire, nor the gutted cat.
'What took you so long?' Janie was at the kitchen sink scrubbing a bowl of
potatoes. It looked as if she'd been back some time.
Peter licked his lips. Another problem: he'd have to tell her about the
malicious hoax call, unless he could think up a plausible lie instantly. It
wasn't like writing a book, where he could take his time and get it right.
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Janie's eyes were already boring into him, looking for the lie.
'Where's Gavin?' Stall, play for time.
'Whatever d'you mean? A look of incredulity merged into sudden mounting
terror. 'You've just collected him from school, haven't you?'
The room seemed to tilt and spin. Peter clutched at the table, saw Janie's
horror through a blur, heard her yell, 'Well, you did collect him, didn't you?
Didn't you?
'Ruskin gave him a lift home. So Hughes said.'
'Why?' She came towards him, fists clenched, and for one moment he thought she
was going to hit him. 'Why didn't you pick him up, Peter? Where've you been?'
'I . . . ' It would take too long to explain; maybe later when . . . 'Look,
I'll phone Ruskin and find out what's going on.'
She followed him into the hall, clinging to his arm with fingernails that dug
into his flesh as he thumbed through the dog-eared telephone directory. The
pages stuck together and he had to dampen his shaking forefinger to free them.
Jesus Christ, he felt like throwing up. Don't panic. He found it, started to
dial and wished that Janie would let go of him.
Ringing out, that same groaning btr-brr-brr, as though the bell the other end
was going to slow to a halt any second. Then it stopped, and he knew he was
through.
'Ruskin's farm.' A woman's voice. It sounded young; probably a teenage
daughter.
'I want to speak to Mr Ruskin please.'
'I'm sorry, he's out.' No offer of a message to be delivered or a 'can I help
you'. Just a plain statement of fact, take it or leave it.
'I - this is Peter Fogg of Hodre speaking. Mr Ruskin gave my son a lift home
from school . . . '
A silence; embarrassing because he could not see the girl's reaction. Maybe
she'd put the phone down and gone away, or maybe she just hadn't heard. Or
didn't want to hear.
'I don't know anything about that.' A kind of what-are-you-telling-me-for
tone.
'My son isn't here,' Peter said sharply. 'I'd like to know where he was
dropped off.'
'I'll leave a message for Dad.' He could visualise her expression of
annoyance, the receiver on its way back to its resting place.
'Look, my son is missing and - '
The line went dead. Peter felt his hand tightening over the handset. He
suddenly wanted to crush it, to throw the broken instrument on to the floor,
stamp on it, crush it into a powder. Instead, he dropped it back on its cradle
and tried not to look at Janie.
'Ruskin must have dropped him off.' She was fighting to kindle a ray of hope,
striving for optimism. 'He'd have no reason to - to - ' To what?
'In that case' - Peter knew he had to do something positive, something active
- 'we'd better go and look for him. Come on, let's try the granary first,
Maybe he's up there playing with his new rabbit.
If he was, then he hadn't taken the torch; Peter's optimism wavered when he
found the rubber-cased torch in its usual place in the porch. Janie wasn't
letting him out of her sight, didn't even bother to put on a coat as they went
outside. It was fully dark now, the atmosphere damp and cold, threatening rain
before morning.
Peter lifted the latch of the heavy granary door, creaked it open and swung [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
