“No. They’re flexible.”
“Bon. Gilles will be in his trailer, so the yard’s covered.” I nudged Papa whose eyes seemed glazed over like the eyes of the blind. “But before we go, let’s give Monsieur Lyon some more background.”
But my father sighed. He’d had enough.
“Later. When we get back, I promise. The police down in Poole told me to get to the hospital morgue as quickly as possible. If Danny’s death wasn’t suicide, then his killer may still be on the boat.”
8. John.
Friday 11th March. 6.50 p.m.
So, Christine Deschamps possessed beautiful, blonde hair. Beautiful everything, it seemed from that baptism photograph. Perhaps this had caused sibling envy on her elder sister’s part. I’d come across plenty of that in my time. What had the murderous Karen Fürst’s problem been in France last year, if not just that?
“Tell him about the letters, the phone calls. Why she did what she did. Go on.”
With Laure’s plea to her father still occupying my mind, I pulled out my Cell phone and left a message at the Coed Glas hotel’s reception desk. Could my cottage’s room please be kept locked until I got back, and I’d be in touch asap. Lesley Shawcross, the owner, had my credit card details on record and, as the place was hardly busy, surely there’d be no problem?
I then warily dialled Alison’s number in Bottesford, holding my breath while outside the window that strange yellow mist had thickened, almost pressing against the glass.
“Yes?”
She sounded ratty. In a rush.
Shit…
“It’s me. John.”
“I know, and I’m just going out.”
“Please…”
“What?”
“I really do need you down here, Ally.”
“Alison if you don’t mind.”
Bugger.
“Alison.”
“OK.”
“A young French lad’s gone missing - Mathieu Deschamps. Eight-years-old. I need some info on his father Alain originally from Les Saules Pleureurs racing stables near Mazerolles south of Poitiers. His wife hanged herself two and a half years ago, but it may not be as simple as that…”
“I know the names. Been on the news just now.” She added Danny Lennox’s sorry story too. “Where on earth are you?”
“Deschamps’ new place. Ty Capel. A converted chapel near Glan y Mor village.”
“House of secrets, then?”
I noticed the farrier’s static caravan was in darkness. Its muzzy lights switched off. An early night perhaps?
“You could say that. Look…”
“West Wales has police, surely?”
A pause in which my heart sunk like a full can.
“Yes or no? I’ll pay your fare, and the rest. Remember we originally looked at rail timetables? I could collect you from Carmarthen. Even Cardiff.”
“When?”
I then explained how father and daughter had already left for Poole and weren’t likely to be back till tomorrow. How I was to wait around here for Mathieu…
I could almost hear her weighing up the pros and cons, and feared the worst.
“Say sorry first. And for what you once said about me and Ben Rogers.”
Nice one, Alison.
But I had to get real She still had a week’s useful leave coming up. “Sorry. I mean it,” I said. “Look, I’ll call you first thing tomorrow with a time.”
Then, without warning, came a knock on the back door. I pocketed my phone, annoyed at leaving her without saying thanks. The knocking continued, louder now.
The trainer had entrusted me to look after the house. That if Mathieu should come wandering back, at least I’d be there. As for the yard, that was covered. Or so I’d thought…
What now?
A face half-hidden by a woollen cap was at the window. Tense, gesturing frantically in the direction of the single-track road that passed in front of the grounds. Rather than open the door, I unlocked the small, iron catch with an even smaller key hanging on a nearby hook. The mist that snaked up my nose was distinctly alchoholic.
Gilles Dugard.
“Monsieur!” he cried out. “No-one ever goes past here at night. But listen! Can you hear an engine? A big engine?”
I craned forwards and yes, some distance away, one was definitely idling. A noise I recognised.
Ignoring Alain Deschamps’ instructions, I locked the back door behind me, pulled up my jacket’s collar and joined the ex-con out in the yard where, beyond the expanse of shaved grass, lurked the unmistakeable bulk of Sion Evans’ transporter. This time, a matching dark blue tarpaulin was stretched and secured over the once-visible slats.
Damn.
I’d planned to sneak a look in Danny Lennox’s attic room, contact Cardigan’s Police HQ and watch TV for any latest news bulletins. But no. The Ginster boyo seemed to be waiting for something. Or someone.
“What’s that doing here?” I said to the farrier.
“Why I’ve called you, Monsieur. “I don’t like the look of it.”
“Better go see.”
“You’re an ex-flic, right?” The unkempt guy’s gingery stubbled cheeks and mean eyes were highlighted by the nearby security light as we began walking across the wet grass. Behind us, the fading sound of restless horses.
“Correct.”
“That’s good. I’m pleased you’re here. We need action. Nothing’s happened so far except for Kevin. Alain’s in denial, and as for Laure…”
There wasn’t time to hear the rest. Or confirm the trainer and his daughter had already left for Poole. That juggernaut was beginning to reverse.
“I need to check its plates, just to be sure,” I said out loud, leaving him behind, suddenly energised at the prospect of helping to pin something else on Sion Evans - if indeed he was the driver - and that Alison had left me a glimmer of hope.
Muggy, diesel-filled vapours found my throat, my lungs as we moved closer to the hulk whose tail lights cut out. Totally exposed now, with the French man just behind, I managed to pick out the muddied number plate and shivered.
A match with the one from this morning.
“I want to see this bastard scorched like a smoky. Carcass and all.”
*
“If Sion Evans is driving this thing, his brother’s the local cop,” I called back to Dugard. “In case you didn’t know.”
“I did. Why Alain warned me to watch out for him. He’s had trouble before…”
“In what way?”
No answer. No engine rumble, no stamping horses or bleating sheep. Where’d they all gone? Dugard was closer, enough for me to catch a whiff of different sweats and that same beer, before a sudden shift of air passed my ear and a crack at the back of my head brought a sweet pang of pain. Then, in slow-motion I fell, my face hitting grass. I could fight the agony, but not the bruising grip of too many hands pulling me feet first on to gravel, hoisting me up like an awkward piece of meat then dropping me on to a soft, reeking bed of slurry. Next, with a satisfied grunt, someone pulled off my boots, ankle bandage and socks.
*
This morning, there’d been three floors full of sheep, but not any more. There was nothing above and around me but a clear, pungent blackness. My breath blocked by blood beneath an oily rag tied tight over my nose and mouth, while the shouting I’d heard faded once the engine started up and the wheels underneath began to churn. I’d recognised Sion Evans’ gutteral, Welsh voice. Then came that of a woman.
This had all been arranged. Dugard the middle man. I’d been a bloody idiot. France all over again...
They’d left my arms and hands free. Big mistake or sick joke. As for my legs, they’d been tied by rope to an iron ring in the vehicle’s side. Using my elbows, I tried to raise myself up, but my bare feet and numb ankles were higher than my head. As for the gag, it wouldn’t budge.
Superglue?
Hell, no…
I tried guessing the direction this noisy crate was
taking and, judging by its increasing speed and the straightness of the run, it was surely east, away from Ty Capel. But to where? And how the Hell could I possibly jump for it?
Alain Deschamps had left me his house keys. An extraordinary act of trust. Actually, a rash act of trust, given my stupidity at having been so easily lured outside. And then unable to box myself out of trouble. After almost a year of re-hab work-outs and top-notch physio, I’d succumbed like some feeble runt.
But I wasn’t into succumbing for long. Not after my humiliation at the hands of Karen Fürst a year ago…
I managed to probe my jacket’s left-hand pocket only to meet one sheep turd after another. Hard, soft, mushy. Plenty of acrid piss too. Evans had deliberately left this floor filthy. Clearly a quick mover. From one job to the next…
The pocket felt suspiciously flat.
No keys. Not even my own.
I withdrew my hand to wipe it on the first relatively clean piece of denim I could find, all the while panic and pain overtaking reason. As for my right-hand pocket housing my cell phone, it was just out of reach.
Fuckit.
Now I knew for sure there was no benevolent and hovering God. I’d straightaway doubted him after my parents had been crushed to a pulp in their car by an oncoming train in East Anglia, and again while witnessing young PC Ben Rogers blow his brains out in Sherwood Forest. Then all that carnage in the eastern Pyrenees. Instead of any comforting belief, came the roar of this massive vehicle on the move. The relentless grind of its chassis beneath me.
I should have called Alain Deschamps immediately after that knock on the window. After all, he’d also left me his number just in case. Even my former boss, or Alison again. Yet just thinking of her name, also brought a black worm threading its way into the chaos of my mind. If she’d not suggested coming to this area, I’d be back in my flat in Goldhawk Street over the hairdresser’s, clocking up the miles on my walking machine with Mahler booming into my headphones.
Then that sly, ex-con’s face came to mind. Had he something to do with Mathieu’s disappearance? Had he perhaps run back to Ty Capel to help himself to the little lad’s drawing pad, his empty anorak and whatever else might be useful to any investigation?
Nothing was making sense, except that I’d fucked up big time. I should never have left that kitchen. Never stepped out into that thick, yellow mist. I should have sussed Dugard the moment I’d clapped eyes on him. If he’d not gone back to the yard, who’d be there for the horses? And the more I imagined him king of the road, sitting up front with Sion Evans, the more I realised someone wanted to hurt Alain Deschamps very badly indeed.
What use could I be to the family now?
Do not black out. Stay awake. Keep listening…
My watch face’s luminous green pinpricks revealed nothing. A costly present to myself when something half the price from Argos would at least have worked. And what was that other noise? A small boy’s cry over the sound of spray? Then another? Were there still distressed sheep penned in at the far end?
“Anyone there?” I yelled as loudly as the choking stink even behind my gag would allow. That sound again, followed by a sudden lurch to the left and slurry shifting in my direction.
Jesus…
“Who is it? Mathieu?” I began. “Answer me. I’m John. Helping your Dad find you. Just tell me you’re OK…”
All at once, the squelch of heavy footwear was coming closer until a solid weight landed on my exposed left hand. On, off it went. Harder each time. Then a woman’s voice. Welsh, sharp as a gull’s as I bit back the pain she’d inflicted. The figure standing over me blurred into the blackness. I couldn’t see any face, nor hands, but her heavy boots were all too clear. Also, I sensed she was of above average height.
“Any more of that din, Saes, and it’s journey’s end for you and the other one,” she snapped.
The other one?
“Who’s that then?”
“Mind your own business. Or else…” Her parting stamp sent another bolt of agony through every singing nerve. She’d run out of things to say.
Bitch… bitch. If I ever found her…
I thought of that other voice. Was Mathieu really on board? Picked up while hanging around somewhere out of sight of his home? And if so, had he put up a fight or even gone willingly as if he’d known them? Trusted them?
But before I could make any guesses or gauge if she’d thrown me a sick, red herring, that dark curtain of nothingness sneaked into place and stayed there together with the growing sense that Laure Deschamps might have known Danny Lennox rather better than I’d first thought.
9. Elisabeth.
Friday 11th March. 7.00 p.m.
This was turning out to be bureaucratic nightmare. Worse than anything I’d experienced as Head of La Coeur de la Sainte-Marie school in Boisvilliers. At least on those rare inspection days, I’d had most of its staff behind me. Here, with this eerie calm beneath my shoes, everyone was an enemy. Better to have La Princesse Poole tossing and turning to provide some distraction…
Everyone on board, including the ferry company’s employees had a bilingual Statement form to complete within the next ten minutes, for checking against the boat’s manifest. That was the easy part. And mine, in perfect French of course, in a neat, scholarly script, made it clear I’d left my car at around 5p.m. GMT, and mounted the four flights of steps to Deck E without having seen or heard anything untoward.
Then, with all accounts gathered in, both plain-clothed detectives from one of Dorset’s Major Crime Incident Teams dumped on us by that helicopter, requested that all passengers proceed to the Conference Room next to the cinema on Deck D.
*
“Please listen for your name, before leaving.” said the taller flic whose body language - economical until stirred - reminded me too much of Alain Deschamps. The man who’d ruined my precious sister’s life. The bottle-blonde French girl alongside him, wearing the ferry company’s red uniform, offered a not very impressive translation.
“And please have your passports and driving licences to hand. This will save valuable time.”
I hesitated. Clearly the winnowing had begun. But how to avoid it? Even though the car I’d driven wasn’t strictly mine, and I was merely one of hundreds on board, there was too much to lose.
Mr. and Mrs. Crossword Puzzle were busy fumbling amongst their tawdry possessions. But not me. Everything in its place had been my motto for too long to be caught out now. However, I told myself yet again to be less contemptuous of my fellow human beings. Less judgemental. Even if police incompetence during my last summer term at the Boisvilliers school almost cost me my freedom. An institution where I’d changed so many lives.
But what of mine?
I surveyed the cattle pen in front of me. Blinds down, those red vinyl chairs linked together in rows like so many pinpricks of blood, but more anaemic than the outpouring from Danny Lennox’s chest.
Yes, my life had changed too, because I’d had no choice.
*
8.50 p.m.
Once everyone was finally seated above the Channel’s subtle swell, the roll-call began. I sensed myself stiffen. Perhaps I should have abandoned my writhing, jerking victim sooner. Perhaps also, that wc. cistern had been too obvious a hiding place for my gun, and worse, that some trace of me on it might still be retrievable. And the moment the shorter of the two flics began to speak in that same throw-back, west country voice, I knew things were going wrong.
“We now know the deceased passenger was a Daniel Liam Lennox, aged forty and, if a recent receipt for a child’s waterproof cagoule found on his body is correct, he was living at Ty Capel racing stables near Glan y Mor in Cardiganshire…”
Non...
I’d searched his clothes and the vehicle. Not thoroughly enough, it seemed.
Another black mark.
The flic paused to let his expressionless eyes roam the rows of anxious, silent travellers, thankfully missing me out. I wasn’t used to fear, but
then it was starting to chill me inside. Slow my heart and dull my senses like those massive, old Charolais bulls whose sperm was spent, as they’d faced the knife. My knife…
“If there’s anyone present who knew the deceased in any way, however small, or who heard either or both of those two fatal shots,” the officer continued. “You must by law inform us. At this stage, cause of death is still being investigated, even though we have entered French territorial waters.”
My blemish was burning under its make-up. Someone’s cheap perfume was too strong. The flic’s voice too loud. Too rough. And all the while, that restless, invisible sea was turning my thoughts this way and that. To places they shouldn’t go. Faces I shouldn’t see. I kept my hands firmly in my lap, clenched around my passport. My photo inside it not showing the disfigurement that still kept me single.
That same flic then read out a list of vehicles and their number plates parked closest to the victim’s vehicle. A black Range Rover manufactured in Oxford in 1974 headed the list. We had to stand and raise our hand when our number came up.
Go through the motions. Blend in… This delay’s not my fault…
Most of my fellow-travellers were Anglais, apart from twelve French, three Irish and one Swiss. All co-operative, perhaps because of the novelty of their situation. Almost eager, I thought. I had to follow suit, but when my turn came, my legs seemed suddenly unreliable.
“…red Peugeot hatchback 104 ZS…” the flic then rattled off my number plate. It felt like a curse. I finally stood up, gripping the chair in front, making eye contact with him because my research had showed it’s what interrogators look for first. I also duly raised my right hand, wishing I’d been un piéton instead. Anonymously part of this boat’s grey, steel walkways. Wishing I’d brought a replacement number plate.
Heads turned my way. I tried a reassuring smile, but the young man before me with dandruffed shoulders, muttered something derogatory about my beret, while Mr. and Mrs. Crossword Puzzle were staring too. Still bearing a grudge. But grudges were my province. What had driven me since my inferior sister had first stolen the limelight. And my boyfriend.
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