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‘Oh, I’d better get back to my own seat,’ Langdon said, rising. ‘And thanks again, Mr Temple. I may take you up on that offer.’
Steve returned to the flat at about two thirty after lunching in the West End. The flat always seemed so empty when Temple was away, and she began to wish she had accepted her friend’s invitation to go and see the new exhibition at the Hayward Gallery. She went into the bedroom and unpacked the new dress she had bought. She wanted to surprise Paul with something really smart when he came back from his lecture tour. As she held it against herself and studied the effect in the long mirror she decided that a new pair of shoes and a handbag were essential to match it. Rather than hide it away in the long cupboard, she hung it on the back of the door where she could see it and wandered aimlessly into the sitting-room.
The trees in Eaton Square were beginning to bud and the city birds had already started to prophesy spring. A couple of the early daffodils she had bought to brighten the place up had begun to wilt. She had picked them out of the vase and was throwing them into the waste-paper basket when Charlie came in. He was carrying a cup on a tray.
‘Thought you might like a cup of coffee.’
‘Oh, thank you, Charlie. Just put it down on the table.’
Charlie was the Temples’ driver, cook, odd-job man and watchdog. His familiarity sometimes verged on impertinence but he was loyal and faithful as a spaniel. The forty-year-old Cockney had been with them for more years than any of them cared to remember and had his own sitting-room and bedroom beyond a door whose threshold neither Paul nor Steve would have presumed to cross. The only disadvantage about Charlie was his unfortunate lack of dress sense. Steve tried not to show her disapproval of the lumberjack shirt and the too tight check trousers.
‘What time is it, Charlie?’
‘Just gone ’arf past two,’ said Charlie, setting the cup and saucer down on a low table. ‘Cream’s in it already but I didn’t put any sugar, like you said.’
‘Only half past two. How slowly the days go! I thought it was later than that. In New York it must be nine thirty.’
Charlie paused, knowing that she needed company. ‘Yes, I suppose it will. Five hours back. Do you think Mr Temple will have had breakfast yet?’
‘Well, I should hope so, Charlie. He promised to get through his schedule as quickly as possible.’
‘When are you expecting him back, Mrs Temple?’
‘Some time next week, if all goes well.’
Charlie stared sympathetically at her dejected face. ‘I’ll bet you’ll be glad.’
‘That’s the understatement of the year. It seems as if he’s been away for months.’
‘Four weeks and a day.’ Charlie saw the discarded daffodils in the waste-paper basket and went over to pick them up. ‘You know, I can’t understand why you didn’t go with him. You usually—’
‘Have you ever been to America on a lecture tour, Charlie?’
‘No,’ Charlie admitted, after a moment’s thought. ‘Can’t say as I ’ave.’
‘Twenty-two towns in four weeks. That’s not my idea of –’ She stopped as the telephone in the hall began to ring. ‘Oh, see who that is, Charlie, will you? If it’s those people who want to clean our carpets say I’m not in.’
She heard Charlie pick up the telephone and give the number. Almost at once he called: ‘Mrs Temple! Quick! It’s Mr Temple.’
Steve ran to seize the receiver from him. ‘Paul, darling! Where are you?’
‘About thirty thousand feet over the east coast of Canada. I’m on Concorde.’
‘But Paul, how on earth—? I didn’t know you could—’
‘Listen, Steve. How are you?’
‘I’m fine. Looking forward to next week.’
‘I’ve got news for you. I’ve finished my tour early and I’m on my way back. We’re due to land at London Airport at seven fifteen.’
‘Oh, that Concorde! But how are you able to ’phone me? The line’s so clear.’
‘Don’t worry about that. Now, you’ve got the message? I’ll be home tonight.’
‘Seven fifteen at London Airport. Bet your sweet life I’ll be there!’
‘There’s no need to meet me, darling. I can take a taxi.’
‘Just you try and stop me. What’s the flight number?’
‘Just ask for Concorde, Terminal Three. Goodbye, Steve. See you at Heathrow.’
Charlie was alone in the flat at a quarter to eight when the telephone rang. He came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on the faded blue and white housemaid’s apron he always wore when he was cooking.
‘Mr Temple’s residence.’
‘Is that you, Charlie?’
‘Mr Temple! Where are you?’
‘I’m at the airport. Is Mrs Temple with you?’
‘Why no! I thought she’d be with you, Mr Temple. She left here two hours ago.’
‘Did she take the car?’
‘Yes—the MG Metro.’
‘You’re sure she knew the time and place?’
‘Yes, she knew the time and place all right. She’s been talking about nothing else all afternoon.’
‘I see.’ Temple’s tone was worried. ‘Did she say whether she had any calls to make?’
‘No, but I don’t think she had.’ Charlie was certain that Steve had had no other thought in her mind except to meet her husband. ‘I hope there hasn’t been an accident…’
‘Yes, I hope so too, Charlie,’ Temple said gravely. ‘I’ll see you later.’
‘Very good, sir.’ Unusually subdued, Charlie replaced the receiver.
The homecoming dinner prepared with such care by Charlie had proved to be wasted effort. On arriving back at the flat Temple had declared himself unable to swallow a mouthful after the meal he had eaten on Concorde, and five hours after she had left for the airport there was still neither sight nor sound of Steve. Charlie had salvaged what he could and stored it away in the deep-freeze for some future occasion. He was in his bed-sitter watching the TV commercials that preceded the ten o’clock news when there came a long ring on the doorbell followed by an authoritative rat-tat-tat on the knocker.
Charlie, divested of his apron and wearing a jacket which noticeably failed to match his trousers, went to open it. Of the two men standing on the landing outside he was already familiar with one. Sir Graham Forbes was the kind of Englishman who had been formed by the successive processes of school, university, military service and public office. With his broad shoulders, bristling grey moustache, bushy eyebrows and a certain aura of unshakable confidence he was still impressive enough to attract the glances of women.
‘Good evening, Charlie,’ he said, as one greeting an old friend.
‘Good evening, sir. Mr Temple’s expecting you.’
‘Any news?’ Sir Graham asked, as he stepped into the hall.
‘No, sir. I’m afraid not.’
The heavily built man with Forbes was at least fifteen years younger and of a very different type. He was soberly dressed with a plain tie and well-polished black shoes. Charlie, who was at heart a downright snob, could see at a glance that he had made his way in the world by his own unaided efforts, assisted by no advantages of family or money. Charlie was not endeared by the way those hard eyes swept over him, missing not a detail of his dress and physical features. He had the uncomfortable feeling that he was being checked against some rogues’ gallery that the police officer carried in a computer-like mind.
‘In here, Sir Graham,’ he said, fussing over the taller man and ignoring the other. ‘Mr Temple’s in the sitting-room.’
Temple, who had also been watching the ten o’clock ITV news, half expecting to hear that there had been some horrific pile-up on the M4 between London and Heathrow, switched the set off and came across the room to meet his visitors.
‘Come in, Sir Graham. It’s very kind of you to come at such short notice.’
‘My dear fellow, I’d have got here sooner only I was already half-way home from my club when your message came through. And when Steve is concerned—’
‘I understand there’s no news, Mr Temple,’ the police officer said, anxious to make the point that he too had forsaken hearth and home to accompany Sir Graham.
Temple turned towards him and the eyes of the two men met with mutual appraisal and respect. Raine, of course, had known Temple’s reputation as a criminologist as well as an author, even before the briefing Forbes had given him in the car.
‘No, I’m afraid not.’
‘This is Superintendent Raine, Temple.’ Forbes put a friendly hand on the Scotland Yard man’s shoulder. ‘I don’t think you’ve met before.’
‘No, I don’t think we have. Though I read about your handling of the Belgrave Square siege.’ The two men shook hands, still measuring each other with their eyes. Temple assessed Raine as thorough and methodical but perhaps a little unimaginative. ‘How do you do, Superintendent.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Temple.’
‘Sit down and I’ll get you a drink.’
‘No, no. Don’t worry about drinks.’ Forbes brushed the offer aside, to Raine’s evident disappointment. ‘Temple, tell me, have you checked the hospitals?’
‘I’ve checked every hospital within thirty miles of the airport,’ Temple said wearily. ‘It took me the whole evening.’
Raine had seated himself on the front edge of one of the easy chairs. ‘I understand you found Mrs Temple’s car?’
‘Yes, Superintendent. It was in the car park at the airport. The attendant remembered her arriving – about half an hour before my plane was due. She’d left her coat in the back of the car, so she couldn’t have intended to go much further than the lounge, or maybe the restaurant.’
‘I take it Mrs Temple didn’t leave a note for you, sir, or anything which might…’
‘No. I’ve been through the place pretty thoroughly, and apart from a telephone message there’s nothing – absolutely nothing.’
Forbes, who had taken up his customary position in front of the fireplace with legs astride, asked: ‘What was the telephone message?’
‘It was on the pad upstairs. It simply said: “Tell P.” – which is obviously me – “about L.”’
‘Who’s L, Temple?’
‘I don’t know. But I don’t think it’s important, Sir Graham. According to Charlie, the message was written several days ago.’
‘Well, I’m sorry, Mr Temple,’ Raine commented in his deliberate way, ‘but it looks as if we shall have to face the facts. The only explanation I can see is that your wife’s been waylaid by someone. Now the question is…’
He was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone out in the hall. Temple exchanged a quick glance of hope with Forbes before he went out to pick the receiver up.
‘Hello?’
He could hear the bleep-bleep, indicating that the call was coming from a pay ’phone. There was a clunk as a coin was pushed into the slot. Then Temple heard a man’s voice, muffled but obviously in the same call-box.
‘All right. Go ahead. Talk to him now…’
‘Hello!’ Temple repeated impatiently. ‘Hello, who is that?’
There was a pause, and then: ‘Is that you, Paul?’ The woman’s voice was so weak that he hardly recognised it as Steve’s.
‘Steve! Is that you, Steve?’
‘Paul, can you hear me?’
He could tell from her voice that she was very frightened. ‘Steve, where are you?’
‘Don’t worry, dear.’ Scared though she was, she was trying to reassure him. ‘There’s nothing to worry about…’
‘Yes, but Steve,’ Temple cut in, unable to mask his impatience, ‘where are you speaking from?’
‘I’m…perfectly all right…’
‘Steve, listen!’ Temple was gripping the receiver. ‘There was a man on the ’phone, I heard his voice…Who was it?’
‘Paul, don’t try and…’ Steve’s voice was fading, as if someone were pulling the receiver away from her.
‘Darling, please tell me…Where are you?’
‘Oh, Paul…’ The cry was barely audible. Before Temple could speak again the maddening bleep-bleep had started once more.
‘Oh, my God!’
‘What’s happened?’
Temple looked round to find Raine at his shoulder. ‘The line’s gone dead.’
‘Replace the receiver, Mr Temple – in case she rings back.’
Temple realised that he was still trying to squeeze some response out of the telephone. With deliberate control he replaced it on the cradle.
Forbes had come to the doorway of the sitting-room to listen to Temple’s side of the brief conversation. ‘You said something about a man, Temple. Was there someone with Steve?’
‘Yes. I heard a voice just as I picked up the ’phone. It sounded as if someone was in the call-box with her and was forcing her to…’
The ’phone shrilled and Temple scooped it up with one quick movement.
‘Take it easy, Temple,’ Forbes cautioned.
