The Fog - James Herbert [48]
He closed the safe door again and twirled the dial. Walking towards the door of his office he glanced back over his shoulder at Edward who was watching him silently.
‘Come along, man, I haven’t got all day!’
They descended the steps to the basement room that contained the vault. Symes unlocked the heavy metal door and they entered the room full of small lockers, each containing confidential papers belonging to the bank’s clients. The vault itself stood at one end, fairly small but large enough for a bank of this size. The bank manager hummed as he walked towards it, anticipating the pleasant day he had before him. Edward followed.
‘Now, Smallwood,’ said Symes, handing him the brown envelope containing the vicar’s money, ‘you’ve got a busy day ahead of you and I don’t want to find any work left over till tomorrow. Get Balmer to give you a hand if you need it.’ He was silent as he dialled the combination to the vault, concentrating on the figures, enjoying the position of trust he had. The last numeral clicked into place and he stood straight, a smile of satisfaction on his face. He swung the heavy, metal door open and turned to retrieve the envelope from his assistant. He frowned at the blank look on Edward’s face.
‘I want to have a word with you tomorrow, Smallwood. It concerns your future with the bank, so don’t be away.’
He turned back and placed one foot inside the vault, crouching slightly because of its smallness, and reaching for a black box marked ‘St Andrew’s Vicarge, Rev Anthony Stephen Peters’.
‘Did you hear me, Smallwood?’ came his muffled voice. ‘I don’t know what’s the matter with you today.’
Edward stepped forward and pushed at his employer’s back violently. Symes fell forward striking his head on the back wall of the vault, his legs buckling beneath him. He was just in time to turn over and through the daze in his head see the heavy door swing shut, leaving him in a frightening black void.
Edward twisted the dial several times then leaned his aching forehead against the cold metal. The air inside the vault would not last long. Certainly for not more than a night.
He walked from the room, locking the door behind him, and climbed the stairs to the ground floor. When he passed Mrs Platt’s desk, she looked up enquiringly.
‘Where’s Mr Symes?’ she asked.
‘Oh, he’s gone for the day,’ answered Edward. ‘He went out the back way to his car, said he was late.’
‘But what about his briefcase?’
‘Said he didn’t need it.’
Mrs Platt clucked in annoyance. ‘He kept me late yesterday typing those papers. He said they were important for today.’ She banged her keyboard, huffily.
‘Mrs Platt,’ said Edward.
She looked up at him.
‘I’m going home now. I don’t feel well.’ He walked away from her. ‘I doubt if I’ll be back.’
9
‘It seems we may owe you an apology, Mr Holman.’ Wreford looked across his desk at Holman, indicating that he should take the seat opposite.
‘You mean you’ve had more news from the school?’
Chief Superintendent Wreford paused before he spoke, a worried frown on his face. ‘Indeed, we have,’ he said.
Holman let a weary sigh escape from his lips. It was 4.00 a.m. and he had spent a restless night in a small detention room, furnished only with a chair and a hard bed. He’d been woken from his fitful doze by Barrow who had brought him up to Wreford’s office without saying a word. Both CID men looked tired for they had spent much of the night talking with various police stations around the Salisbury area in an effort to find out if any unusual incidents had occurred in their areas recently. And if anyone had reported fog.
The report from Andover concerning Redbrook House had spurred them into this activity.
‘Tell me what’s happened,’ said Holman.
‘From a class of thirty-seven, one boy managed to escape without any serious injury from the fire. He was in a state of shock – it was assumed that the fire was responsible – but later, he began to say some strange things.’ Wreford swivelled his chair so he faced away from Holman. ‘At first, the doctors thought he was