When a pilot like Richard Clayton refused to take off from Heathrow with his VC10, you knew better than to overrule him. You had the aircraft checked just as he asked, until you found the life-threatening defect that the man had not so much observed or detected, as sniffed out. He had been a bomber pilot during the war, and after that a real pioneer of British intercontinental civil aviation. He was experienced through and through, knew all the globe-spanning routes, and he had been the first one at BOAC to fly the latest flagship of the British aeronautical industry. The sleek Vickers VC10 with its four jet engines bunched together at the rear, just under the elegantly slanting T-tail, was a real beauty and a pleasure to fly.
“First you found fault with your regular kite,” Richard’s superior, sitting behind his desk, complained, “and when I gave you a replacement, you found fault with that too! You’re impossible, Ricky, you’re costing us tons of money…”
“I know, Dicky, I know. But it can’t be helped; I want to land in one piece, and so do the customers. I mean, we don’t have a single parachute on a kite nowadays, can you credit that?”
“Yeah, when you come to think of it, Rick: if they had told us back then, when we were flying bombers, that one day people would pay good money to fly without a chute, we would have laughed at such a silly notion…”
“Exactly! It’s a shame that you stopped flying, by the way, but if you want to climb up the corporate ladder, you have to stay on the ground, I guess… You remember flying, Dicky? It’s what the birds do!”
“Yeah-yeah! Get out of my office, Ricky! Stay away! I don’t want to see your smug face again until the end of the week!”
And so, unexpectedly, Richard Clayton was back in London for a couple of days. He had recently moved to Sidney, but he hadn’t told Daisy yet, so he decided to go and see the old girl. Maybe she would let him stay. Maybe they would have a little tryst for old times’ sake, as they sometimes did. “There’s still sexual chemistry galore there,” the middle-aged pilot muttered to himself as he rode into town in the back of a cab.
But when he arrived at the flat in Tufnell Park, the door was locked and Daisy was not answering. Normally it was still Richard’s privilege to just knock, push the door open and cry out, “Hello, it’s me!” So it appeared that Daisy was out. It wasn’t one of her workdays at the practice, but she could have gone to the shops or something. At any rate: very annoying. This could take all afternoon. A blind girl like dear Daisy needed a lot more time for her daily chores than sighted people; she tended to lose track; sometimes she forgot to check her tactile watch and would turn up at the shops long after closing time, firmly convinced that it was much earlier… “What do I do now?” Richard thought.
Just then the door behind him on the landing opened. “Thank God it’s you, Richard! I knew I’d heard someone at Daisy’s door…”
“Oh hello, Mrs Em! How do you do? I’m looking for Daisy…”
“I’m worried sick about the girl! She disappeared a week ago.”
“Disappeared? Good Lord!”
“Please come in, dear Ricky, please come in. I’m at my wits’ end and you must help me.”
“Of course!”
The old lady filled in the younger man on what had happened: that Daisy didn’t come back from a night at the cinema with Margery: “I found her phone number in the book—Margery’s—, but she has no idea what could have happened.” She told him that Daisy would never go away for a week without giving her the keys so that she could empty the mailbox and water the plants…
“So all this is highly unusual,” Richard exclaimed, “what could possibly be going on, have you any idea?”
“Well yes, as a matter of fact I have. Let me show you something…”
And the lady retrieved the Sunday Mirror from a low table next to her armchair, opened it at the little Blind Angel of Wrath-piece—with its largish photograph—and handed it over. As he took it Rick muttered “nice picture,” but as he started reading, his eyes opened wide.
“What on earth is this? When did this article appear?”
“Something like two and a half weeks ago.”
“And how does Daisy even know this man, this McCullough?”
“I think it’s the man who knows her,” Mrs Maurois explained. “He came to the opening of the sculpture exhibition… He must have invited himself, then he probably just talked her into helping him.”
“No, no, this can’t be right! She’s been set up to serve as a bait, not only for this Loretta’s kidnapper, but for every pervert in London! The picture even shows a great deal of cleavage…”
“Well, Richard, now you understand why I’m worried. I hadn’t yet dared to put it into words the way you do, but it’s quite clear, isn’t it, that poor Daisy has been badly taken advantage of. I can assure you that she was quite shocked, even deeply unsettled, when I read that piece to her. And now she has probably been abducted…”
“You’re right. How awful! Poor Daisy!”
“But what can we do about it? That’s what I’d like to know.”
“Well, we must go to the police at once!”
“I already did that, but they dismissed me. I’m just a neighbour, this Mrs Hayes has only gone missing for a couple of days. That she forgot about the mail and the plants is neither here nor there… I showed them the piece in the paper, of course, but that only reinforced their impression that I’m just a meddling old gossip.”
“Oh no, Mrs Em, you were never a meddling neighbour, I can vouch for that. Now, you told me that you phoned Margery Prendergast; I assume Daisy’s whole gang knows about this, the family, the friends, the colleagues, the crew…”
“Yes… yes, I certainly believe they all know about it.”
“And do you know if anyone else went to the police, or contacted the paper’s editor?”
“Not that I know of, no… But you understand, none of us has even thought of contacting the editor. Can one phone a paper just like that?”
“One certainly can, Mrs Em. Those people clearly have a lot to answer for! If I may use your phone, I think I’m going to try them right now…”
“Isn’t it a bit late? It’s almost closing time…”
“Not for a paper’s newsroom. Let’s see if we can get this Nick Aaron on the line…”
But first Richard Clayton had to pick through the pages of the paper, looking for the editorial box where all the phone numbers were listed. Then he picked through the numbers, carefully choosing the one that seemed most promising. And finally he uncradled the phone. It took some time, some negotiating, some toing and froing—“Yes, yes, I’ll wait…”—until he could speak to a junior editor who could give him the number of the “casual”, the freelance journalist who had written the piece. “That will be his home number, in fact…” So, next thing, Richard got a little girl on the line, who was gone a long time, “fetching Daddy”, and at last the author of the confounded piece identified himself. Richard explained his business and burst out into recriminations.
“You can be proud of your handiwork, Mister Aaron! Now that Daisy has actually been abducted, you might soon have another juicy story to publish, like that of an unwitting blind lady who came to grief by your doing! I just heard that you have a daughter of your own, you bastard, how are you going to explain this to her when she grows up, huh?”
“Wait-wait-wait! Just wait a minute! What are you talking about, Mr Clayton? Mrs Hayes was not unwitting, you know. As far as I’m aware of, she and Martin McCullough had agreed to follow this strategy. They wanted to lure Loretta’s kidnapper out into the open. McCullough assured me he would be tailing Mrs Hayes day and night; that is of course, as soon as she left the safety of her home. So I went along with it… I only did what was asked of me!”
“And did you go to the trouble of verifying this whole rigmarole with Mrs Hayes herself?”
“Well… no. I took McCullough’s word for it.”
“Aha! Wrong! Wrong-wrong-wrong! I can assure you that Daisy was not aware of this hare-brained scheme at all. Not for one moment! But of course she’s only a woman, and she’s blind, so she doesn’t count…”
“Oh, come on! That’s not fair. I respect the lady deeply; I even published a piece about her art…”
“Yeah, well, you’ve still got a lot to answer for in my book. But I’ll tell you what you can do to make up for it, for now. I want you to give me the address of that Martin McCullough. And don’t tell me you don’t have it, or that you have to protect your sources, ’cause then I’ll come to your place instead and punch your face!”
And that is how Richard Clayton was able to write down the address of Martin McCullough’s garage on the notepad lying next to Mrs Maurois’ telephone.
“There we are Mrs Em. Now we’re getting somewhere!”
“Well, my dear Richard, I’m impressed. And when I see how passionate you are about defending Daisy, it makes me wonder why on earth you two ever separated…”
“Oh, don’t ask, Mrs Em, I don’t understand it myself.”
“And what are you planning to do next?”
“Tomorrow morning first thing I’m going to confront this McCullough personally. Then I’m going to frogmarch him to the nearest police station and force him to tell them his story. I’ll twist his arm out of his shoulder if I have to!”
“Well, be careful, dear. At the opening I could see that the man looked rather like a thug. He might be dangerous…”
“So you knew who he was?”
“I’d seen his picture in the papers a year ago, yes.”
“Oh, I see. Well, I can be quite dangerous myself.”
Mrs Maurois was greatly relieved that a man had finally turned up with the wits and the wherewithal to deal with this whole unsettling affair. She was so grateful, that she not only asked Rick to stay for dinner, but also offered to put him up in her guest room. “It’s more like a broom closet, but there’s a bed that I can make up for you.” Rick accepted both offers. An hour later, as they were sharing a meal, they spontaneously made a point of not discussing Daisy’s plight.
“Tell me something, Mrs Em; I’ve always wanted to ask. Are you a Belgian refugee from the Great War?”
“Well, no, but I was married to one. Me, I’m pure English stock, a Londoner born and bred. I met Jean-Jacques at a ball for refugees; you know, to foster understanding with the local population and encourage fraternization. It worked like a charm! It was love at first sight for both of us.”
“And then your husband died and you never got remarried?”
“Indeed. But that had nothing to do with the war.”
“And how come, then, if I may inquire, that you speak English with a French accent?”
“I took that over from Jean-Jacques. And after he passed away I held on to it, because it is much more ‘chic’ than the Cockney accent I took away from home in the East End.”
“I see! You’re probably right about that. I’m also a real Londoner; I also did something about my accent. During the war I acquired a very ‘chic’ RAF accent.”
“There you are, then.”
Lying in bed that night, Rick had to think back to Mrs Em’s question earlier: “Why on earth did you two separate?” Good question. It had been by mutual consent, that much was clear. But why? For one thing, perhaps, their relationship had been provisional from the start. Daisy had told him that she loved him, but that she still longed for Ralph every day. So there was no need for him—Rick—to be faithful to her. “I don’t mind if you have a girl in each port of call.” Imagine that: a sexy lady like Daisy offers you the deal every man dreams of, but of course you, even though you have a solid reputation as a lady’s man, you stop dallying at once! Then, when Daisy had found out about this faithfulness—it had taken some time—, she had agreed that they “might as well get married”. As he loved her, and as the sexual chemistry was definitely there, very strong, Rick had accepted.
But then, things had turned out to be rather difficult on many planes. Rick was not an intellectual; Daisy was nothing but. He didn’t understand much about modern art or medical things; his wife was very passionate about her profession and her sculpture. And so on and so forth… Of course, such differences need not be a problem for a couple, but there was more. Daisy was always holding back; it had nothing to do with Ralph; she kept something hidden inside, at her very core. Rick wanted to give himself entirely to her; she was not willing or even capable of doing the same the other way round.
And so, in the end, after almost fifteen years of marriage they had agreed to call it quits. They had separated. They intended to get divorced as soon as the law would be changed in such a way that you could do so in a civilized manner.
“And now,” Rick told himself, “let’s go to sleep.”
The next morning he got up early, as did his hostess, who served him his breakfast. Rick explained that if McCullough was actually running his own garage, he was bound to be there before his employees, and that if you wanted to confront the man without witnesses and without his own men to back him up, you had better catch him before opening time.
“Remember what I said, Richard,” Mrs Maurois exclaimed. “The man could be dangerous. Please be careful.”
When he arrived at the address the journalist had given him, Rick was relieved to find a garage there as promised, and as the workshop door was open, he walked in. The place was rather poky and derelict, and standing under a car that was raised on a hydraulic lift, there was a man who exactly fitted the description Mrs Em had given of McCullough: tall and wiry; a hard profile and a crew cut. A whippet; a thug. Rick was taken aback by the fact that he was actually working on a car, dirtying his own hands. That was not what he had expected, and looking around him at the modest workshop, he wondered: could this be a one-man concern? Were there any employees at all? Such small businesses always make you marvel: can a chap actually make a living this way?
Rick cleared his throat. “Martin McCullough?”
“Yes.” The man turned his face to him with a wolfish smile. “What can I do for you? Your car need repairs?”
“No. I want to talk. About Daisy Hayes. I’m her current ex-husband.”
“Ah. So again: what can I do for you?”
“I have reasons to believe that you are responsible for that nasty little piece in the paper a while back. Blind Angel of Wrath?”
“Listen, don’t blame me, I’m also a victim. That damned journalist must have overheard us at Daisy’s opening…”
“Don’t waste your breath, McCullough. I talked to Nick Aaron. He’s the one who gave me your address. And he told me the whole story.”
“Okay. So if you already know the whole story, what can I do for you?”
“Stop saying that, you smug bastard! Daisy has disappeared. You were supposed to be tailing her. So what happened? Where is she now?”
“I can’t tell you where she is, except that she’s probably in that pervert’s clutches. And I can’t tell you what exactly happened, because I was not tailing her. That was never the plan.”
“What? You crazy bastard!”
Rick had been standing at a respectful distance, as you would when you entered another man’s lair; now he took a few steps forward, looking angry, ready to confront McCullough face to face, so to speak. But suddenly the man, who had been wiping his hands with a rag, whipped out a small revolver from somewhere—it was impossible to say from where—and pointed it at Rick. He growled, “I feel threatened: I take precautions.”
Rick raised his palms in front of his shoulders. “All right! Take it easy! I admit I wanted to punch your face but now I’m thinking better of it.”
“Good. Step back. I liked where you were standing before just fine. Let’s talk like civilized men. Any particular question you want to put to me instead of idle recriminations?”
“Well, why didn’t you just follow the plan you told Nick Aaron about? If you had actually shadowed Daisy like you said, you could have captured your daughter’s kidnapper.”
McCullough put his gun away as fast and as stealthily as he had taken it out. “Don’t you see? That would have been Loretta’s death sentence! The man would have been taken into custody all right, by me or by the police, but he would have denied everything. He would have clammed up and we would never have been able to find my daughter. So she would have been buried alive in the dungeon where she is being held, dying alone in the darkness of hunger and thirst…”
“So you lied to the journalist.”
“Of course! I wasn’t going to sacrifice my own daughter!”
“But what is the plan, then? Now that Daisy has been abducted, what do you hope to achieve? Tell me that!”
“Well, don’t you understand? The moment that sorry bastard grabbed Daisy, he signed his own death sentence. She’s going to kill him, if she hasn’t already done so, and then she’s going to escape from the dungeon together with Loretta.”
“No! What are you talking about? You’re deluding yourself. Daisy is blind, how can she do all that?”
“She’s a real killer. I don’t doubt for a single moment that the man is gonna die…”
“You’re crazy! Daisy is the sweetest, kindest person I’ve ever known…”
“And you say that after divorcing her? That girl is really clever. Did she ever tell you about what happened in 1950?”
“Ah. So you don’t know, do you? You have no idea? In the winter of ’49-50, before she married you, she killed a man… And believe me, your sweet blind girl executed that man like a pro. He’d had a military training, like everyone at the time, and he was something of a weapons expert, a crack shot, but he didn’t stand a chance. He got killed. And sweet Daisy just walked away without a scratch.”
“And who is this man she’s supposed to have executed?”
“The Earl of Haverford. The man who poisoned her first husband. The bastard got what he deserved.”
“Cedric! But he committed suicide!”
“That’s what Daisy wanted the whole world to believe. You know, because she’s a woman, and blind on top of that, everyone gets a completely wrong picture of her… How long were you two married, anyway?”
“Almost fifteen years, why?”
“So in fifteen years of marriage she never filled you in on what happened in ’fifty? Typical!”
“All right, all right, I get the picture. So you’re pretty sure that Loretta’s kidnapper doesn’t stand a chance, huh? Only, there’s one hell of a flaw in your crazy little plan.”
“And what would that be?”
“My ex-wife will be raped! Repeatedly! She probably already has been raped.”
“Ah, but for a girl like Daisy it’s not the same thing as for other women. She’s not a hapless victim you know, she’s a fighter. While the pervert rapes her she’ll be plotting her revenge. It will motivate her for the kill and soothe her conscience after she’s taken another life.”
“Well, McCullough, you’ve really got all the answers, huh? You’re completely crazy! And one of these days they’re going to find you with a big mechanic’s screwdriver stuck into your heart.”
“Are you threatening me, man? Be careful, two can play that game… And now I want you to get off my property. You’ve got your answers.”
On the tube back to Tufnell Park, Rick kept thinking of the revelations he’d just heard from McCullough. He only half believed what that madman had told him, but the half he did believe made him wonder. Could that be the explanation of what Daisy had been holding back all those years? “Let’s just call it some dark secrets and leave it at that…”
Then suddenly Richard Clayton was able to put his finger on what had been wrong between Daisy and him: sometimes he had just felt lonely when he was with her. Of course every human being is lonely in the end. Even without being an intellectual he could see that. After all, as a long-haul pilot he had often been away, and was quite used to being on his own. But what was not normal, was to come home to your wife and feel more lonely than when you were on your own. In fact, sometimes he had been able to get more warmth and companionship out of a one-night tryst with a stewardess than from a whole period of leave with his own wife. This, of course, was after he had started dallying again… without telling Daisy. Oh, skip it!
The next point on the agenda was to go to the Tufnell Park police station and give them a piece of his mind. Even though frogmarching McCullough was no longer on, Rick had now gathered enough information to tell the police a gripping story. And that is what he did as soon as he could get hold of an officer who was willing to handle his complaint. As always, Rick assumed that his pilot’s uniform would carry some weight, give him an advantage, but to his dismay, the officer immediately started to cast some doubts on his story.
“Let me get this straight, Mister Clayton. You’re separated from your wife, right? And you flew in from Sidney yester