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Part Two: Katherine

A steady rain was falling as Sam parked the Wolseley in front of 16 Seymour Terrace, a large brick house set back from the street in its own small garden. Ivy grew thickly up the walls, softening the severe Victorian lines and camouflaging the peeling paint on the window frames. When they reached the front door they could see through the glass pane that the interior had been divided into flats. "It's the ground-floor rear," Milner told them, indicating a door opposite the street entrance.

The flat door was opened promptly upon Foyle's knock by the woman Sam had seen the night before. "Are you the police?"

"Yes," said Foyle. "My name is Foyle. This is Sergeant Milner, who telephoned a little while ago, and my driver Miss Stewart."

"Please come in. I'm Katherine Neville-West." She stepped back to admit them.

The woman appeared to be in her mid-thirties. She was petite and slender, with wavy shoulder-length chestnut hair caught loosely back from her face with combs. She was dressed simply in a navy skirt and white blouse and wore no jewellery except a narrow gold wedding band. Dark smudges under her eyes told of a sleepless night and her forehead was creased with worry.

The room they entered was small but comfortable, with a chintz-covered sofa and chairs and wide French windows that opened onto the back garden. A sliver of sea was just visible in the far distance. Foyle's observant eye quickly took in kitchen fittings tucked into an alcove, a small table with three chairs pushed against a wall, a child's doll cradle by the hearth and two large bookcases crammed with books.

At her gestured invitation he and Milner seated themselves on the sofa while Sam hovered unobtrusively in the background. Mrs Neville-West perched nervously on an armchair facing them. "You've no news then?" she asked anxiously. Her voice was soft, the American accent unmistakable.

"I'm afraid not. I think it's best if we start at the beginning. What is your daughter's name?" Beside him, Milner readied his notebook and pencil.

"Cecily. Cecily Neville-West."

"How old is she?"

"Seven last month."

"When did you last see her?"

"Yesterday morning, when I took her to school."

"Which school?"

"St. James's Primary, in Mount Pleasant Road." Foyle nodded. He was familiar with the place, as his own home was only a short distance from it.

"What time was that?"

"Just before nine o'clock."

"Do you always walk her to school?"

"Yes. Yes, I do. And I meet her afterwards."

"But you weren't there yesterday?"

"No, I was delayed. The bus I was taking had a puncture and it took over an hour for another one to arrive. I was nearly three-quarters of an hour late. It's never happened before. I've told Cecily that if ever I'm not there when school ends she should wait for me in the playground, but she wasn't there. And no one had seen her leave. All I found was her schoolbag under a tree." Her hands were clasped tightly together.

"And this bus was coming from … "

"Lympne – the air base. I work in the WVS canteen there."

"Right." He nodded again. The aerodrome lay four or five miles east of Hastings. He knew it well since his son had been stationed there for some months the previous year.

"Could she have gone home with a school friend?" asked Milner.

"I can't think who. I've called everyone. They all say that she was in the schoolyard when they left yesterday. She wouldn't do that anyway, I'm sure."

"Are there any relatives she could have gone to?"

"Only my husband's sister, in Battle, but she hasn't heard from her. And I've rung the hospital twice but they say no child has been brought in."

"What does she look like?"

"Long blonde hair – she wears it in braids. Brown eyes. Small for her age. And she's missing a front tooth."

"American accent?"

"No."

"No?"

"No. Cecily is half-English; she's lived here most of her life. She doesn't have an American accent."

"Right." Foyle was slightly surprised by her tone, which sounded almost defensive. He usually disliked American accents himself, but this woman's voice was so soft and melodious that it wasn't unpleasant to his ears. He re-focused his thoughts on the case. "What was she wearing? School uniform?"

"No, they gave up on the uniform last year due to shortages. She had on a red jumper and a blue plaid kilt."

Foyle noticed a framed photograph on the mantelpiece. Rising, he gestured to it, tacitly asking permission to examine it more closely. "Is this her?"

"Yes. That's about two years old, though."

The picture showed a winsome blonde child clinging to a tall, fair-haired man in Royal Navy uniform – a lieutenant, Foyle noted. He held her easily in one arm, the other arm round his wife. All three were smiling at the camera, the idealised image of a close, loving family. In the background could be glimpsed a harbour teeming with warships.

He replaced the frame carefully. "Have you a more recent photograph?"

"Yes …" she rose and opened a desk drawer. "Here." This one showed the same elfin-faced girl, older now, with her hair in long braids.

Foyle's mind returned to the image of the happy family on the quay. "Have you contacted your husband about Cecily going missing, Mrs Neville-West? Or is he at sea?"

She stiffened and looked away. "No. He's … his destroyer was torpedoed. In July of last year. HMS Whirlwind."

Foyle winced inwardly at his faux pas. "I'm very sorry," he said softly.

She shook her head slightly, as though to push the painful subject from her mind. "Thank you," she said tightly. "But … about Cecily?"

"Yes. I think we should begin at her school. Have you spoken to anyone there this morning?"

"No, not yet."

"Milner, get over there and see what you can find out, would you? Sam, run him over." He walked his sergeant to the door, where he added in an undertone, "Ring the station and get some men out searching, will you? And have them send a couple of constables down to check the canal." Milner nodded, his face grave.

After the other two had departed Foyle spoke reassuringly to the woman. "I know this is very distressing, Mrs Neville-West, but you mustn't panic. Most missing children turn up on their own within a few hours. Chances are your daughter has gone off with some school friend you don't know."

"But in that case she would have rung me. She knows how to use a telephone. I just know something is terribly wrong!" She rose from her chair and started pacing anxiously.

"Well, has she been upset about anything lately? Could she have run away?"

"No! You don't understand, Mr Foyle. Cecily wouldn't do that. She adored her father, and she was devastated when he …" she broke off, her voice tremulous. "She's clung to me very closely ever since. There's no way she'd just run off, even if something was bothering her - "

Her protest was interrupted by the double ring of the telephone. "Excuse me … Hello?"

After a pause, she caught her breath sharply. "What? Where is she?" The colour drained from her face and she caught hold of the bookcase for support.

Foyle was beside her in an instant. Formality forgotten, he put his hand over hers on the receiver and rotated it slightly, leaning his head down close to hers to listen. "… goin' ter cost you five 'undred pounds," he heard a gravelly voice say. "An' no police, if you want ta see her again. Did you ring 'em already?" She glanced at Foyle, only a few inches away, who shook his head.

"N-no," she gasped, her voice shaking.

"Good. You jus' get the money, see? Five 'undred. In five-pound notes."

"What have you done with Cecily? I want to speak to her!"

"Never mind that now. Get the dosh and don't tell nobody about this. I'll ring you back later and tell you where to deliver it. Then we'll see about lettin' the little lass come home." There was a loud click and the line went dead.

They both stood frozen for a startled second before Foyle pried the receiver from her clutching fingers and replaced it on its cradle. His mind was whirling. In over twenty years of police work he'd never been confronted with a crime of this sort. Bloody hell! he thought grimly, looking down at the woman.

Her face had gone chalk white and her eyes wide with shock. She staggered back and dropped into the nearest chair, a hand over her mouth. "Have you got any spirits, Mrs Neville-West?" he asked her.

She looked blank. "Any what?"

"Whisky, brandy. Anything."

Her brow furrowed in confusion. "You want a drink?"

"For you." She shook her head stiffly.

Foyle stepped over to the kitchen and filled a glass of water from the tap. "Drink this," he said gently but firmly, wrapping her fingers around it. "I need your help now."

After a few swallows her pallor receded slightly. "Listen to me," he said, dropping into a seat facing her. "I need to know if you recognised that man's voice." She shook her head again, still dazed.

"Sure?"

"Yes."

"Nothing familiar about it? The accent? Anything?"

Another shake. "He sounded Cockney, but … no. Nothing familiar." She took another swallow of water, her hand unsteady.

Foyle frowned. "I need to use your phone."

He dialled the station first. Reaching his friend Hugh Reid, superintendent of the uniformed division, he asked him to start trying to trace the ransom call straight away. Then he rang St. James's School. Milner was interviewing some of Cecily's class mates, but luckily Sam was in the outer office. Foyle told her to collect the sergeant and come back to the flat immediately, ringing off before she could pepper him with questions. He hung up and rubbed his forehead, thinking hard. Who in God's name could have kidnapped a child in this sleepy fishing town?

While he had been telephoning the woman had disappeared into the adjoining bedroom. She emerged now wearing street clothes, her posture rigid with determination. "What are you doing?" Foyle asked.

"I have to get the money," she said, as if this was obvious.

Foyle was appalled. "Absolutely not. You're not to pay ransom to this man!"

Her chin went up defiantly. "I have to! I'd pay ten times that to ensure my daughter's safety!" Two bright spots of colour were burning in her cheeks.

"But you won't be. Once he knows you're willing to pay, he'll never stop."

She looked at him for a long moment before her shoulders drooped in defeat. Removing her coat and hat, she dropped them on a chair.

The telephone rang again.

She jumped and looked at him in alarm. "It's all right," he told her. "Just stay calm. Tell him you're trying to get the money. I'll have to listen again, I'm afraid."

He could feel her hand shaking under his as she lifted the receiver to her ear. "Hello?" she said unsteadily.

"Katherine!" It was a woman's voice. "Has she come home?"

Feeling the tense form next to him relax, Foyle released her hand and drew away a trifle. "No, no word of her, Sarah."

"Nothing? My God, Katherine, you must be frantic!"

"I'm trying not to panic."

"Are you sure you called all her friends? There's no one you could have missed?"

"I don't think so."

"What about the police? Have they done anything?"

"They're here now, Sarah. Listen, I should ring off. Someone might try to call with news."

"Do you want me to come over?"

She hesitated briefly and Foyle shook his head again. "No, thank you. I don't want you bringing the baby out in this rain. I'm not alone; the police are here, as I said. I promise you I'll call the minute there's any news, all right? Goodbye, Sarah."

"My sister-in-law," she explained softly as she lowered the receiver. She turned to look helplessly at Foyle, the wide brown eyes filled with fear. "What in God's name am I going to do?"

"You're going to let me handle this. Trust me, Katherine. We're going to get her back." They stared at each other for a long moment, the tension between them palpable. Neither of them noticed that he had called her by her Christian name.

"What if you're wrong?" she asked him in a very small voice.

"I'm not," he told her firmly with a confidence he didn't feel. "He won't hurt her as long as he thinks you're willing to pay."

She closed her eyes and he knew she must be thinking of the Lindbergh kidnapping. The American aviator had paid $50,000 in ransom but his infant son had been found murdered. He struggled to find words to reassure her. Before he could think of anything, there was a tap at the door.

He crossed the room to admit his sergeant and his driver. "What's happened, sir?" Milner could tell by his boss' expression that the news wasn't good.

Foyle spoke quietly, hoping the woman wouldn't overhear. "Ransom demand just now. Five hundred pounds."

Milner's jaw dropped. "What? In the post?"

"No, telephone call. Reid's tracing it."

"But … five hundred pounds?" Milner glanced round. Foyle could tell what he was thinking: this modest flat was not the home of someone who could be expected to have that kind of money.

"Yes, I agree. Doesn't make sense. Did you turn up anything at the school?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Well, the chap said he'd ring back and tell her where to deliver the ransom. Our best bet is to try and get him then."

Sam, who had been following this exchange in wide-eyed silence, spoke for the first time. "Is there anything I can do, sir?"

"Yes. See if you can get her to drink some tea." He nodded toward the distraught mother, who was gazing blindly out the French windows at the rainfall, arms wrapped round herself.