She sounded hysterical. Her voice was high, vibrating with tension, strung tighter than I'd ever heard before. Near snapping point. Frightening.
'What's happened?' I asked. I was aware that my voice sounded too calm, but I couldn't help it. It always seemed to come out that way when there was a jumbled turmoil going on inside.
'Oh my Christ!' She still had time to be exasperated with me, but no time to say more.
After the shortest of pauses another voice spoke, and this time every hair of my body rose in protest.
'Now you listen to me, creep…'
Angelo Gilbert.
'You listen to me,' he said. 'Your little lady wifey's sitting here snug as you like. We tied her to a chair so's not to hurt her.' He sniggered. 'Her friend too, the wet little bird. Now you listen, mug, because you're going to do just what I tell you. Are you listening?'
'Yes,' I said. I was in fact listening with all my might and with one hand clamped over my other ear because of the chatter and coffee cups all around me. It was macabre. It also seemed to have divorced me from any feeling in my feet.
'That was your last runaround, that was,' Angelo said, 'sending us those duff tapes. This time you'll give us the real ones, get it?'
'Yes,' I said mildly.
'You wouldn't like to get your little wifey back with her face all smashed up, would you?'
'No.'
'All you got to do is give us the tapes.'
'All right,' I said.
'And no bloody runaround.' He seemed disappointed that I'd shown so little reaction to his dramatics but even in that dire moment it seemed second nature to use on him the techniques I'd unconsciously developed in the years of teaching: to deflate the defiance, to be bored by the super-ego, to kill off the triumphant cruelty by an appearance of indifference.
It worked on the kids, it worked a treat on Jenkins, and it had already worked twice on Angelo. He should have learned by now, I thought, that I didn't rise to sneers or arrogance: not visibly anyway. He was too full of himself to believe that someone might now show the fear he felt the urge to induce. He might not be ultra-bright, but he was incalculably dangerous.
He held the receiver to Sarah's mouth, and against her I had fewer defences.
'Jonathan…' It was half anger, half fright: high and vehement. 'They came yesterday. Yesterday. Donna and I have been tied up here all night. Where have you damned well been?
'Are you in Donna's house?' I said anxiously.
'What? Yes, of course. Of course, we are. Don't ask such damn silly questions.'
Angelo took the phone back again. 'Now you listen, mug. Listen good. This time there's to be no messing. This time we want the real McCoy, and I'm telling you, it's your last chance.'
I didn't answer.
'Are you there?' he said sharply.
'Sure,' I said.
'Take the tapes to my father's house in Welwyn. Have you got that?'
'Yes. But I haven't got the tapes.'
'Then get them.' His voice was nearly a screech. 'Do you hear?' he demanded. 'Get them.'
'It'll take some time,' I said.
'You haven't got time, creep.'
I took a deep breath. He wasn't safe. He wasn't reasonable. He wasn't a schoolchild. I simply couldn't play him too far.
'I can get the tapes today,' I said. 'I'll take them to your father when I get them. It might be late.'
'Sooner,' he said.
'I can't. It's impossible.'
I didn't know exactly why I wanted to delay. It was an instinct. To work things out; not to rush in. This time the Egyptians would have more sense.
'When you get there,' he said, seeming to accept it, 'my father will test the tapes. On a computer. A Grantley computer. Get it, mug? My father bought a Grantley computer, because that's the sort of computer those tapes were written for. So no funny tricks like last time. He'll try the tapes, see? And they'd better be good.'
'All right,' I said again.
'When my father is satisfied,' he said, 'he'll ring me here. Then I'll leave your little wifey and the wet chick tied up here, and you can come and rescue them like a right little Galahad. Got it?'
'Yes,' I said.
'Don't you forget, creep, any funny stuff and your little wifey will keep the plastic surgery business in work for years. Starting with her nice white teeth, creep.'
He apparently again held the receiver for Sarah because it was her voice which came next. Still angry, still frightened, still high.
'For God's sake, get those tapes.'
'Yes I will,' I said. 'Has Angelo got his pistol?'
'Yes. Jonathan, do as he says. Please do as he says. Don't fool about.' It was an order just as much as a prayer.
'The tapes,' I said with an attempt at reassurance, 'are not worth a tooth. Keep him calm if you can. Tell him I'll do what he says. Tell him I've promised you.'
She didn't answer. It was Angelo who said, 'That's all, creep. That's enough. You get those tapes. Right?'
'All right,' I said, and the line abruptly went dead.
I felt pretty dead myself.
The common-room had emptied and I was already going to be late for the Lower VI. I picked up the necessary books mechanically and propelled myself on unfelt feet along the passages to the laboratories.
Get the tapes…
I couldn't get them until I could find Ted Pitts, which would probably not be until lunch time at twelve fifteen. I had an hour and a half until then in which to decide what to do.
The Lower VI were studying radioactivity. I told them to continue the set of experiments with alpha particles that they had started last week and I sat on my high stool by the blackboard from where I often taught, and watched the Geiger counters counting with my mind on Angelo Gilbert.
Options, I thought.
I could yet once again ring the police. I could say an unstable man is holding my wife hostage at gunpoint. I could say I thought it was he who had killed Christopher Norwood. If I did, they might go chasing out to the Keithly house and try to make Angelo surrender and then Sarah could be a hostage not for three little cassettes, but for Angelo's personal liberty. An escalation not to be thought of.
No police.
What, then?
Give Harry Gilbert the tapes. Trust that Angelo would leave Sarah and Donna undamaged. Do, in fact, precisely what I'd been told, and believe that Angelo wouldn't wait for me to walk into Donna's house and then leave three dead bodies behind when he walked out of it.
It wasn't logically likely, but it was possible.
It would have been better if I could have thought of a good valid logical reason for the murder of Chris Norwood. He hadn't given Angelo the finished computer programs because if he had there would have been no need for Angelo to come to me. I had speculated, not for the first time, on exactly what had happened to Liam O'Rorke's original notes, and what had happened to the tapes Peter told me he had sent to the person who had commissioned them. To C. Norwood, Angel Kitchens, Newmarket.
To Chris Norwood, comprehensive thief. Cocky little bastard, Akkerton had said. Vegetable chef Akkerton, feeding his paunch in the pub.
I supposed that Chris Norwood, when first faced with Angelo, had simply said that Peter Keithly was writing the programs and had all the notes, and that Angelo should get them from him. Angelo had then gone
