enforcers and not lawbreakers. Eventually, however, a ladder appeared out of the darkness and the two policemen were able to climb down to the ground.
Clayton already had his car running by the time Trave had pressed a pound note into the hand of the ladder’s owner and had joined him, taking the passenger seat, and Clayton wasted no time in heading off.
‘To Blackwater?’ he asked, glancing at his companion.
‘Yes, you heard Jacob,’ said Trave with a sigh. ‘That’s where he’s going. Maybe not tonight, but sooner rather than later. He’s convinced himself that there’s vital evidence somewhere in the house, and he won’t rest until he’s found it, although personally I think it’s a wild-goose chase. If there was anything, Osman would have got rid of it at the same time he got rid of Katya. No, the evidence exists; it’s just somewhere else. That’s all.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ asked Clayton. He’d heard nothing in the flat to convince him that Osman had had anything to do with his niece’s murder. Claes was a different matter.
Trave started to respond, but his voice was drowned out by the wail of a police-car siren coming toward them down the other side of the road. For a moment its blue flashing lights illuminated the darkness, and then it was gone.
‘I know where they’re going,’ said Trave with a smile. ‘Someone obviously thought we were up to no good back there. Probably that old woman in the ground-floor flat. She’s certainly had a day to remember.’
‘What do you think Jacob’s intending to do with that gun?’ asked Clayton nervously, wishing that the police car was following them out to Blackwater Hall instead of heading uselessly over to Jacob’s empty flat. Right now they needed all the help they could get.
‘Well, I don’t think he’s going to kill anyone with it, if that’s what you’re worried about,’ said Trave with quiet confidence. ‘Not unless Claes fires at him first, and I honestly don’t think Jacob’s looking for that kind of confrontation. He could have shot Osman and Claes a long time ago if he’d wanted to, but instead he’s spent every minute of every day going round Europe searching for evidence against them, because it’s justice he’s after, not some clandestine murder in the dark.’
‘Well, I hope you’re right. But whatever he’s got in mind, we need to warn the people at the Hall. They’ve got a right to know,’ said Clayton, glancing anxiously at his watch. It was six o’clock already, and Jacob would easily have got to Blackwater by now if that was where he’d gone. Once again Clayton cursed his stupidity for having allowed their prisoner to get away and pressed his foot down hard on the accelerator, trying in vain to extract a little more speed from his old second-hand car.
Trave said nothing, and they passed the rest of the journey in an uneasy silence.
Jacob stood motionless in the darkness with his back to a tall pine tree on the edge of the woods that bordered the wide lawns surrounding Osman’s house. The wind had died down since the afternoon but still blew softly through the trees, and overhead the crescent moon peeped out intermittently from behind a veil of clouds, shedding a pale light down onto the well-tended grass. About two hundred yards away the Hall was a great shadowed shape lit here and there by pricks of electric light. The minutes passed and nothing happened, but Jacob showed no sign of impatience. His face was impassive, giving no clue to the feverish workings of his brain.
The Swain trial had already been running for three days, and Jacob had confidently expected Claes and his sister and Osman to go to London to give evidence on the Friday, two days earlier. They hadn’t, but the newspaper yesterday had reported that preliminary legal arguments were over and that the live evidence would begin on Monday. And until his unexpected encounter with the police, Jacob had calculated on the three of them being gone for the day, giving him the opportunity to quietly break into the house and search it at his leisure. Osman was a collector, a keeper of trophies — there would be evidence somewhere of his crimes. Jacob was sure of it.
But now the situation was out of his control. Trave might not want to stand in his way, but the other policeman certainly would, and a locked door would not keep them imprisoned in his flat for very long. On his arrival fifteen minutes earlier Jacob had climbed up into the trees and cut the telephone line running from the road up to the Hall, and now all he could do was wait and see what happened next.
Jacob cursed himself yet again for having come out here earlier in the day. There was no need for it. Monday was going to be his opportunity, and if he’d stayed home that young detective would never have found him. But there was no point regretting his mistake. What was done was done. The house drew him like a magnet — that was the problem. Tonight he would sleep in the boathouse. It was the place where he felt closest to his brother — it was where Ethan had been happy and where he had died, murdered in cold blood by those two bastards who’d already sent Ethan’s and his parents to the gas chambers. A spasm of hatred gripped Jacob’s thin frame, but it was gone in a moment as he reasserted control over himself. He hadn’t come this far to let emotion get in the way of what he had set out to do.
At ten past six the outside light suddenly went on above the front door, and a moment later Claes and his sister appeared on the steps with Osman behind them, wearing a dinner jacket. Jacob watched them through his field glasses as they got into Osman’s Bentley. He knew where Jana Claes was going, dressed all in black with a lace mantilla on her head and the old worn prayer book in her hand. He’d followed her before on a Sunday evening to 6.30 Benediction at St Aloysius and sat two pews behind her in the big, echoing church while the tiny congregation abased themselves before the Blessed Sacrament and incense filled the air. Mass in the morning; Benediction in the evening — Claes had his work cut out on a Sunday, Jacob thought with bitter amusement, ferrying his sister back and forth to church so she could confess her family’s sins, seek forgiveness for the unforgivable. And then Claes had to drive Osman about as well. Tonight the master of the house looked like he was on the way to some gala dinner or other in the city, where he would no doubt be treated like visiting royalty. Jacob had done his research — he’d traced the way Osman had spent the last fifteen years building himself a position in local society with carefully targeted charitable gifts, trading his ill-gotten gains for his neighbours’ respect, until now no Oxford ball or banquet could be judged a real success if Titus Osman wasn’t present as the guest of honour.
The headlights of the car raked the trees for a moment as Claes turned the wheel, and then they were gone, disappearing into the darkness up the drive. Jacob hesitated. He knew the house was almost certainly empty — there was no live-in staff at Blackwater Hall. It was the opportunity he had been waiting for, and yet still he hung back, unwilling to take the risk that Claes might come back unexpectedly and find him. Jacob hated Claes, but he feared him as well. He remembered the man’s wiry strength when they had wrestled together in Osman’s study the previous summer. He’d only just managed to get away.
And yet Jacob knew he had to try his luck. The chance was too good to miss. He stepped out onto the lawn, feeling the crunch of the frosty grass beneath his shoes, and had just reached the side of the house when he came to an abrupt halt, flattening himself against the wall as a car drew up in the courtyard. Looking cautiously around the corner, Jacob saw two men going up the steps and then heard them knocking hard on the front door. It was what he’d feared: the moonlight was just sufficient to enable Jacob to recognize Trave and the other young detective — they’d escaped their captivity quicker even than he’d anticipated.
Trave stopped his knocking for a moment and then started it up again, this time even louder than before. A minute later the younger policeman took over. Jacob thought they would never give up, but finally they turned around and went back to their car. The doors closed and Jacob waited expectantly for the sound of the engine gunning into life, but nothing happened. He cursed his luck: it was obvious what was happening — they were going to sit there and wait for Osman and Claes to come home so they could warn them about him. And there was nothing Jacob could do about it except stand shivering in the cold and watch.
The minutes passed agonizingly slowly. It was too dark for Jacob to be able to see his watch, and he dared not risk his torch. An owl hooted several times somewhere high up in the trees, but there was otherwise no sound to break the silence until the bell in the tower of Blackwater Church on the other side of the hill began to toll out the hour of seven. It was like a signal: almost immediately a light went on in the car, and then, several minutes later, the younger policeman got out and went up the steps again. He didn’t knock on the door this time; he was doing something else, which Jacob couldn’t see in the darkness, and, once he’d finished, he went back to his car and drove away.
Jacob held his breath. Benediction was a short service, and Claes and Jana could easily be back by now; they could still meet the policemen’s car further up the drive, and all would be lost. But Jacob heard nothing. Once again he was entirely alone. Stealthily, he crossed the courtyard and went up the steps. There was a folded piece of paper tucked into the letter box. Jacob let out a sigh of relief — the young detective had obviously thought his note was more likely to attract Osman’s attention hanging on the outside of the door rather than posted into the interior. Carefully lifting the brass flap, Jacob picked up the note, put it in his pocket, and went back to the trees, where he
