by Riley Banks
To add to his woes, he was worried.
More than worried. Shit scared.
The last thing he had seen when they dragged him from the villa was her dead body.
She was so still, so peaceful.
That should have made him smile but, in reality, it just made him hollow.
He didn’t mean to kill her.
Did he?
No, he just wanted to scare her.
Now he was looking down the barrel of a murder charge, and even though his record was clean, he knew a clever prosecutor could find the earlier assault charges.
‘Vous avez un visiteur.’ The policeman’s guttural French sounded more like a dog growling.
Wilson had no idea what he was saying but the door to the interrogation room opened and a short, balding man stepped through.
He stared down at Wilson with small, dark eyes set around a hooked nose before turning to speak to the police in hushed tones.
They spoke in French – always bloody French. Why couldn’t anyone speak English in this God-forsaken country?
The policeman nodded, closing the door behind him, leaving Zac alone with this strange man.
He looked familiar. Wilson knew he had seen him somewhere before but his brain was too addled for accurate recollection.
The man sat still. He didn’t say a word for several minutes. Just watched Wilson’s battered face and stole glances at the camera high up in the corner of the room.
A red light blinked intermittently, indicating the camera was recording but a second later, the light stopped flashing.
‘You look a mess,’ the man said in perfect English. There was a slight accent, but Wilson had no idea what it was.
‘Hey, at least I’ve been in a fight. What’s your excuse, ugly?’ Wilson hoped bravado would still his booming heart.
The man shook his head. ‘I’m not here to verbally spar with you, boy.’
‘Then why are you here?’ Wilson knew his voice was nowhere near as tough as he wanted it to sound.
‘Well that depends on you, doesn’t it, kid? You know why I was sent here tonight?’
Wilson shook his head.
‘To make sure charges were laid against you. Damon Harvey is demanding that you be prosecuted for assault and attempted murder, among other things.’
The pounding in his chest kicked up a notch. It was what he’d been afraid of.
‘And?’
He couldn’t manage more than a frightened whisper, wondering what other bad news the guy was here to deliver.
‘And I have a good mind to follow through on those orders.’
There was just a hint of a smile curving the corners of the man’s lips.
The smile gave him something to grab hold of.
Hang on a second. He only said attempted murder.
Wilson clung to the words, feeling the first sprig of hope since being manhandled through the doors.
‘She didn’t die then?’ He wasn’t sure whether he was disappointed or relieved or perhaps a measure of both.
‘No, she didn’t die.’
‘That’s good I suppose,’ Wilson said, not sure what this guy wanted from him.
‘Yes, I suppose it is.’
Was he ever going to get to the point?
‘So are you here to press charges?’
Thump, thump.
‘That depends, Zac. You don’t mind if I call you Zac, do you?’
Wilson shook his head. ‘Depends on what?’
Thump, thump, thump.
He was a caged bird and here was a man that could possibly be convinced to set him free.
‘On you. It all depends on you, my boy.’
Thump, thump, thump.
His chest was going to explode.
It was obvious the man wanted something in return. Nothing was ever free. The ferryman had to be paid.
‘Okay. Tell me what you want.’
The man slid a yellow envelope across the table towards him. ‘Accept the terms in this envelope and follow it through to the letter.’
Thump, thump, thump.
‘What’s in the envelope?’
He shook his head like a reproving schoolmaster scolding Wilson for asking silly questions. ‘It doesn’t work like that, Zac. If you agree, you can see for yourself once you’re outside this police station.’
Thump, thump, thump.
‘And if I don’t agree?’
The man’s lips parted. Wilson couldn’t be sure whether it was supposed to be a smile or a grimace.
‘Then I go outside and fill out the documents that Mr Harvey asked me to. I hope you’ve been practising your French. You’ll be spending a lot more time in France.’ His beady eyes bored into Wilson.
‘How long do I have?’
Thump, thump, thump.
‘As long as it takes me to get to the door.’ The man pushed his chair back, grabbing the envelope from under Wilson’s nose.
‘Okay. I’ll do it.’
‘You’re sure?’
Thump, thump, thump.
What choice did he have?
‘Yes, I’m sure.’
The man laughed, putting a wrinkly hand on Zac’s arm. ‘Trust me. You’re going to be very happy with your choice.’
Recognition hit Zac like a bolt of lightening to the brain.
‘You. You’re that guy. You gave me tickets to the sex club…’
Things were starting to look up again.
Isabelle threw the valise and camera bag into the back of her Porsche Cayman.
‘I thought you said I only had to do this in Paris.’
‘Well now I want you in Nice.’
‘Merde.’ Isabelle had plans for the weekend that didn’t include traipsing around the Mediterranean. Plans that included a weekend in bed with the delectable Pierre.
‘Il est un pervers. Il aime photographies de baise,’ she said, doing her complaining in French, forgetting for a second that he spoke perfect French – had spent much of his childhood in France.
‘Yes take photographs of the fucking,’ he said, his voice exploding out of his throat like a cannon. ‘But I’m no fucking pervert. You think I want these photos for my enjoyment, you sick little bitch?’
He pushed her up against the car, his face so close she could smell the scotch on his breath.
Her heart battered against her ribs, catapulting up into her throat. She’d forgotten how dangerous he could be.
‘Je suis désolé,’ she said, holding up her hands as if she expected him to strike her. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Isabelle wondered again how she had ended up here – as his beck and call girl.
Oh, he was dashingly handsome. Suave, sophisticated and rich beyond belief.
At first, that was enough. To know a man as sexy and alluring as BJ Harvey could be interested in a poor girl from a village in North Africa.
It didn’t hurt that he was generous with the gifts and had financed much of Isabelle’s current lifestyle.
But none of it came free.
He waltzed in, making demands whenever he desired and for whatever he desired, reminding her every chance he got that he owned her, that she would be nothing without him.
He didn’t care that she was now in a committed relationship. If he wanted sex, she better pay up.
If he wanted incriminating photographs of innocent people, she’d do it, no questions asked.
BJ Harvey expected full obedience.
She wished to God she could tell him to shove his demands, to tell him she no longer needed his money.
But Isabelle had learned the hard way that people didn’t quit the Harveys.
They quit you.
Wilson walked out the doors of the police station fifteen minutes later, the yellow envelope clutched under his left arm.
Jacobs watched him take a seat in the covered bus shelter, using the light to inspect the contents of the package.
‘Good boy. I knew you wouldn’t turn tail and run. You’re
too much of an arrogant SOB.’
According to Bill Harvey, Wilson would be feeling quite proud of himself about now, probably even a bit invincible.
Bill was right. He was always right.
Of course, when people found out Wilson had flown the coop, Jacobs would be the first person they’d come looking for.
But thanks to Bill, he’d be safe at an undisclosed destination.
‘All you have to do is deliver the parcel and the terms to Wilson. Once he accepts, you’re free to leave. Lie low for two weeks – three maximum,’ Bill said. ‘Then I’ll come get you. All will be fine. Haven’t I always looked after you?’
Jacobs breathed a sigh of relief, wondering why he had ever doubted his employer. It was true. Bill had come through, arranging first class tickets on a commercial airliner.
‘You understand why you can’t use the company jet? We can’t have Damon thinking I was behind this. You’ll have to take the fall for a little while but I’ll make it worth your while.’
Wilson rifled through the contents of the envelope, picking up each item for a closer inspection, pocketing the thick wad of Euros, just as Jacobs knew he would, looking around to make sure no one was watching.
He then lifted the small slip of paper from the bottom of the envelope and peered at it expectantly, his eyes widening in surprise before an arrogant smile played over his lips.
Shoving the contents back in the envelope, Wilson hailed a taxi; an action Jacobs mirrored a few minutes later.
Chapter Twenty-Three:
Sweat crept up Highgrove’s back as he checked his phone again, just to make sure it was working.
The dial tone buzzed back at him like an automated raspberry.
Why hasn’t she called back yet?
It had been more than thirty-six hours since he’d left a message on Burke’s voicemail.
She’s just pissed off still. She’ll call back soon.
But that guy said too late. What if it’s already too late?
Highgrove pressed the intercom button. ‘Get Charlotte on the line.’
‘Yes sir. Right away.’
A minute later, Lucy buzzed back through. ‘Still no answer, Mr Highgrove. Would you like me to keep trying?’
‘What the fuck... of course keep trying? Are you a blithering idiot?’
‘Sorry sir.’ Lucy’s voice trembled and he knew she was on the verge of tears. She was always on the verge of bloody tears. He wished she’d grow a backbone and stop being such a pushover. She should take a few pointers from Charlotte.
He forced a calm into his voice that he did not feel. ‘Get me Jonah Walsh instead.’
‘On the phone sir?’
‘No you moron. Get him in my office.’
‘Yes sir,’ she said, and this time he could hear the tears had started.
‘Stop crying, Lucy. I’m an ass. I shouldn’t yell. Next time I yell at you, tell me to fuck off.’
She gasped and a split second later, a nervous giggle. ‘Okay, sir.’
It took an eternity for Walsh to get there.
Every minute, the unease grew in the pit of Highgrove’s stomach until he thought he’d start shitting concrete.
He reached for another cigarette, already on his second packet.
It wasn’t even lunchtime.
If Burke would just return my calls, I wouldn’t have to smoke so much. Should charge the cigarettes to her expense account.
‘Jonah Walsh to see you, Mr Highgrove.’
Walsh showed himself in and stood with his hands behind his back like the good soldier he once was.
‘You asked to see me, sir?’
A cruel retort leapt to Highgrove’s lips but he bit it back down. If soldier boy wanted to act like he was still in the military, then let him.
‘I want everything you have on the Harvey family,’ he said. ‘And I do mean everything. Any hunches, suspicions, enemies – whatever you have.’
Walsh looked at him hesitantly.
‘I want it by close of business tonight and no later.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Walsh said, turning and walking back out the office.
The only thing he hadn’t given was a salute.
She awoke late in the morning, her head groggy and limbs heavy from the sleeping tablet and morphine cocktail.
But apart from a dull ache in her cheek, and a slight burning sensation where she’d been sutured, Miranda felt quite good.
Turning the shower to hot, she stepped under the steaming water, the cares of yesterday washing away.
I hope Charlotte feels better. I’ll go and see her before I have breakfast, or is that lunch now?
When she emerged from the shower a few minutes later, she was a new woman. Her hair was clean, her skin sparkled and she’d even managed to make her face look less battered.
She put on a pair of jeans and a cream polo necked jumper, pulling her dark hair back in a ponytail.
It was then that she noticed her handbag on the desk. Had it been there when she got in the shower?
Of course it was you twit. Do you think someone stole it and then decided to return it?
Still, she wondered how she could have missed it last night.
You were doped up to your eyeballs.
Miranda rummaged through the bag, breathing a sigh of relief as her hand closed around a sheaf of papers, bulldog-clipped together - the evidence that Mrs Harvey’s death might not have been an accident.
The library had been the catalyst, giving her the idea to go see the eyewitnesses. It wasn’t easy, especially since her French was rudimentary at best, but all of the eyewitnesses were keen to have their accounts taken seriously.
Miranda recorded the interviews and intended to have the tapes transcribed into English as soon as possible. She had a copy of the coroner’s report and a statement from the mechanic, as well as copies of the crime scene photographs.
Everything she read made the accidental death ruling seem less likely.
There was a lot Miranda didn’t understand, especially the coroner’s report, but she had been meaning to discuss it with Charlotte last night.
Then Zac happened and everything went to hell in a hand basket.
Still, even under the circumstances, Miranda had never been so excited about writing before.
She now understood why Charlotte wrote investigative pieces.
There was something satisfying about solving a mystery.
Imagine Mr Harvey’s face when he reads that his wife’s death wasn’t an accident, but murder. Maybe he’ll give me a reward if my article helps find the real killer.
There was a soft knock on her door and Nancy opened it a sliver.
‘Oh good, you’re up. I thought you’d sleep all day.’
‘What is it Nance? Is Charlotte okay?’
‘Huh? Oh yeah, she’s fine. I just came to tell you that we fly out in an hour.’
‘Fly out where?’ Miranda wondered if they were cancelling the press trip all together because of what had happened. ‘Are we going home?’
‘No. No. Nothing like that. Mr Harvey thought people might relax a bit more away from here. So we fly on to Venice a day early. If you don’t get a move on, you’ll miss the plane.’
Miranda was a bit disappointed that she wouldn’t be on the ground to get more information for her story, but she was sure she could find the rest either over the phone or on the Internet.
And at least she’d get to talk it over with Charlotte on the plane.
‘So she’s well enough to fly?’
‘Charlotte?’ Nancy shook her head. ‘She’s doing much better but the doctor won’t allow her to fly for at least another twenty four hours. She’s staying here without us.’
Warm sunlight streamed through the open curtains and the scent of fresh coffee and warm croissants filled the room.
She knew now that Wilson had assaulted her in the pool before attempting to drown her.
She also knew how close he had come to being successful.<
br />
Charlotte had thought of death many times in her early teens but her survival instinct had always been stronger.
It was sobering to think she had almost died at someone else’s hand.
Lifting the fragrant coffee to her lips, she took a sip, thankful that the doctor had already taken the drip from her hand, and given her the all clear to come off the oxygen.
Damon sat beside the bed in his armchair, reading the newspaper.
For some reason, he avoided her eyes.
Neither of them had spoken since she had woken in his arms to find Damon stroking her hair and face.
It was one of those awkward topics neither was brave enough to broach.
Charlotte didn’t know whether she was more afraid Damon wouldn’t apologise or that he would.
And so they skirted around the topic, talking meaningless chitchat.
Damon broke open one of the croissants and offered her half.
Charlotte wondered about the implications of sharing his croissant. If she accepted, what was she saying?
Her fingers reached out and took the proffered half and Damon caressed the back of her hand, his blue eyes full of concern.
‘Does it hurt?’
Charlotte wondered what he was referring to - her near drowning or his fingers on hers.
‘Your hand? From the drip?’
Oh. That.
‘A little, but not too much.’
Something electric passed between them.
‘I hate to do this to you but I really need to leave for a while. I need to make some urgent phone calls and go to the airport a bit later.’ His eyes were apologetic. ‘Will you be okay?’
‘Sure. I’ll be fine.’
In truth, the thought of being alone in the house filled her with anxiety.
She smiled, hoping to convince Damon she was a tough girl that wasn’t scared of being alone.
Today it was a harder sell. She didn’t quite believe it herself.
‘He’s in jail, Charlotte. He can’t hurt you,’ Damon said, his voice tender.
She nodded, swallowing hard. So he hadn’t bought her bravado.
‘I need to check my emails.’
‘I’ll have someone bring your things,’ he said, bending down and kissing her forehead before leaving her alone.