Sue for Mercy - Veronica Heley Page 0,10

had been seriously ill some time ago, but appeared to have recovered. His picture had appeared in the local paper on occasions when he was guest of honour at some function or other.

My informant also said that in his opinion, and strictly off the record, John Brenner was a bastard of the first water, and that he only kept his staff by paying them fabulous salaries. In his private life he was supposed to be about as human as a computer.

“‘Facts, not feelings’,” I murmured, trailing back to my own office.

“How’s Handsome?” enquired Bessie.

“Got a skin too few, I’d say. And terribly thin.” I told her what I’d learned the previous night from Mr. Bessiter, but I didn’t tell her what I’d deduced from it, or of my subsequent argument with Charles.

“Now’s your chance,” said Bessie. “Kidnap him and take him off to your lair while he’s still groggy from the anaesthetic.”

“Mm?” I said, thinking it was odd that if Charles could remember what had happened to him, and where he’d left his belongings, he’d sent me off to Mrs. Burroughs to look for them.

“That flat opposite yours — isn’t it to let again? Put him in there, and Bob’s Your Uncle.”

I grunted. I lived in a big old Victorian house, which was divided up into two flats on each floor, each complete with kitchen, large bedsitting-room, and tiny hall. There was a bathroom on each landing. My flat was on the top floor, and the one opposite me had been empty for some time following a thunderstorm during which rain had poured in over the occupant of the bed. The agents had told me that morning that officially the flat was to be redecorated before it was re-let, but that it might be possible for me to have it for a friend on a week to week basis. I thought about the palatial Whitestones, and Charles’ home, which was reported to be “a fine place”. I didn’t think Charles would like what I had to offer.

“When you see him tonight,” said Bessie, “you can ask him, can’t you?”

“Oh, I’m not seeing him again,” I said, and began to talk about the picture at the ABC which I wanted to see instead. I spent a miserable evening, chewing toffees and thinking about my long-lost Rob and about Charles. I was sure Charles was mixed up in something nasty, but I couldn’t believe that he was a villain himself. Of course, I didn’t know what a villain should look like. I just had a feeling that he wasn’t one.

Like Charles, I went by feelings, and not by facts. Except...

There was something bothering me. Charles had as good as told me not to go and see him again, but he hadn’t asked where I lived, or made any request about the disposal of his luggage. Was he leaving the door open for me to go and see him again, or had he just forgotten?

The police were at my flat when I got back, asking for a statement about the accident. I told them what I knew. They seemed set on the theory that Charles had been beaten up and robbed by hitchhikers, and I didn’t see any necessity to query it. They said I’d probably saved his life, which was nice of them, if not entirely accurate.

The next morning I woke with a firm determination to put him out of my mind. I would phone Mrs. Burroughs, get Mr. Bessiter’s work phone number, and confirm that Charles had been fixed up with accommodation; then I would drop Charles a note telling him where to collect his luggage, and that would be that.

Mr. Bessiter was only a trifle less loquacious on the phone than when we had met. He hadn’t done anything about finding a room for Charles, but he’d visited him the previous night in hospital and found him “surprisingly chirpy”. He told me Charles had decided he would have to return home for the rest of his fortnight’s leave, and that he’d be phoning his brother to collect him from hospital, either on Friday or Saturday morning.

“What about his luggage?” I asked.

“Didn’t mention it, love. I suppose he’ll be phoning you about it.”

“He doesn’t have my phone number or my address.”

“He’ll contact you somehow. Very capable guy, our Charles. Well, must dash — work calls, and all that. Cheers!”

Bessie came to lunch with a frown. “This Ashton,” she said, picking at her food. “I don’t know if it’s the same family,