I sat down. My beret like a hot clamp around my head. My clothes too tight for that confined space. And then, in the brief pause while the two flics and the blonde in red scanned their respective sheets, came the distinct growl of another helicopter lifting away from the boat.
“Taking the body away, poor man,” said a woman’s Irish-accented voice behind me. “I wonder what really happened? Do you think it was suicide? Who could shoot themselves in the eye and the heart? Holy Mary, mother of God. Why aren’t they telling us?”
“Business, of course,” said whoever was sitting next to her. “If it was murder, it might put people off crossing on this boat for some time, if not for ever. The Zeebrugge tragedy’s been bad enough.”
“If he was shot by someone, how about mistaken identity, and that the wrong man might be dead?”
I realised the speaker was one of those three ignoramuses who’d barged into the Toilettes where I’d been hiding. Their car, a new, blue Audi had been parked two rows to my left. If they’d something incriminating to say, they’d have done so already, surely?
“Won’t be keeping you much longer now,” said the other idiot flic, who’d barely moved a muscle throughout. “If the drivers and passengers of those vehicles mentioned, could remain behind for a few moments…”
The boat’s engine began to rev. A deep, purring sound, while a shortlist of by now familiar details came over the microphone.
I held my breath. Kept still, suppressing every rush of blood to my head as each was delivered in that annoying, Plebeian voice. And all the while, the budget-line boat dipped and rose beneath me, butting the waves on its way at last towards the Normandy coast.
*
I crossed myself and fingered the intricate crucifix around my neck, letting the tip of my index finger rest for a moment on the significant lump in the Saviour’s groin.
There’d been ten of us in the vicinity of that black Range Rover. My car the furthest away. I’ve never in my life put money on a racehorse. In fact, I loathed the whole scene - but I guessed the odds on getting quizzed were still too short. I could picture my old Maman’s face. A smile of victory stretching her papery cheeks. The woman being pampered and fussed over at my expense, clinging on too long and, up to now, too far away for me to properly attend to.
Ten.
A conveniently round number comprising four French, five British and the Swiss guy young enough - at a stretch - to be my nephew. And that thought reminded me that I must start getting organised for the Deschamps’ visit to me in a few weeks time. On the phone, Laure had sounded keen. Almost too keen, but I’d not dared ask why. My role in what was left of that family was to stay out of sight and out of mind. Behave myself. But the youngsters still loved their presents. Their only aunt’s best attentions…
I noticed then a ‘dog collar’ lurking amongst the French contingent, checking his watch as if a date with the Almighty was overdue. The Audi girls - obviously avid readers of Le Nouveau Détective, were unusually silent as our Statements were read out in alphabetical order. Only mine in classic French, was badly translated by the blonde. She relayed how I’d neither seen, heard nor smelt anything untoward. So why, once she’d reached the end of my account, did she add that I’d been seen spending more time than most checking inside my boot? No-one else so far had suffered this kind of embellishment.
“Pardon?” I interrupted. “What was wrong with doing that?”
The stuffy air in the Conference Room seemed to cool. The Dog Collar was looking my way. Late fifties, prematurely grey, whose hollowed cheeks and bushy, black eyebrows gave him a distinctly vulpine look.
“Any further observations?” said the shorter flic whose name I’d already forgotten. “The sooner this is over, the sooner we reach our destinations.”
Oui. Our destinations.
My chest involuntarily expelled all its stored, stale breath as the window blinds sprung upwards without any apparent human intervention, letting in the ferocious night. Then without warning, every light bulb shivered then died.
Merde.
Someone had a torch. Someone else screamed. Another yelled they didn’t want to die. Nor did I. but kept that to myself. Meanwhile, the Dog Collar was chanting from the Office for the Dead when he was drowned out by the flics’ loud tannoy plea for calm.
And then came something else quite unexpected.
10. Laure.
Friday 11th March. 7.48p.m.
How I loved Papa yet hated him at the same time. God - if there was one - had given me too much of his stubbornness and not enough of his looks. The same for Mathieu. Perhaps with us, he’d run out of ideas. After all, billions of people is a tall order for anyone to get exactly right.
Since leaving Ty Capel for Poole, Papa and I hadn’t spoken to each other because I’d insisted he drive the tank-sized Mitsubishi round Glan y Mor village, past the school, by the fields and along the Nantfawr stream which can be reached from the pub’s car park. Also, that derelict house by the phone box where Mathieu and another boy, Iori Lewis from his class, often play at being aliens.
But no.
In his pig-headed way, Papa still felt my little brother would be making his own way back from wherever in his own good time. Allowing those cops on to the premises had been mistake number one. Number two, he’d realised fairly quickly, was leaving John Lyon, a relative stranger, and not completely fit, in charge of the house. Ex- Detective Inspector or not.
“We do this identifiacation, get back and sort out Vervain for tomorrow. OK?” He said, driving too fast in the thickening mist. “That’s what Danny would have wanted. It’s going to be a pain in the arse dealing with the media. We don’t neeed it.”
I didn’t reply. The fog had got worse, with visibility shrunk to a few metres.
I couldn’t see us arriving anywhere, never mind to the south coast. And as for Vervain - my horse, remember - I just had to pray Gilles Dugard was staying sober enough to keep an eye on him and the others. If that went tits up, it would be my fault. Mathieu, however, was another story.
Papa leant forwards, his handsome nose that I’d not inherited, almost touching the windscreen. His leather-gloved hands gripping the steering wheel.
“I don’t think you reacted enough to Mathieu not turning up,” I said, wanting to bring him back to reality. “Nor to what Maman did to herself.”
“You should say sorry for that.”
“Why? According to Docteur Vivaro, she took two hours to die. That’s a long time on the end of a rope.”
He glanced at me for a split second.
“I’ve kept this back from you, Laure, out of respect for Maman and yourself,” he glanced at me, knuckles jutting even more through the leather. “He also said she’d had sex not long before it happened. I was away, remember? And that’s not all.”
Bastard.
My insides seemed to curl up into a cold, hard shell.
“That’s a horrible thing to mention, and what d’you mean by ‘that’s not all?’”
Silence.
“I said, what do you mean, ‘that’s not all?’”
“Just shut up.”
How I wanted to punish him. Make him bleed where I could see it. Let him feel my pain. Her pain. To him, Maman had gradually become invisible. A feeder of the five thousand, willingly it seemed and yet sometimes I’d see fear flutter across her face. Yes, fear is the only word to describe it. And I mustn’t forget I still had that note.
A week later, after the post-mortem, the funeral people had injected stuff under her skin and used make-up and blusher - something she’d never done. Dressed her in pink - not her usual colour at all - with a disguising frill around her neck. All tante Elisabeth’s idea, and she’d paid for it. But how I wished Maman had been left alone so that me and Mathieu had a real, unprocessed memory to cling to.
*
I couldn’t think of Danny dead, either. That was too much. By pretending we were off to pick him up after his Range Rover had broken down, was
the only way I could
deal with it. There was only so much grief a seventeen-year-old could take.
“Damn him! Selfish crétin,” burst from Papa like a firework. He switched on the car radio to a Welsh language programme and then, as interference from outside created a buzzing blur, turned it off. “But we can still make the race tomorrow. The forfeit’s five grand otherwise…”
My eyes were red and sore, but I made myself study that face my art teacher had once called ‘chiselled.’ It now looked mean. Driven, in a devilish way. I’d never worked out what Maman had seen in him. Except he’d had the bearing of a young Legionnaire and of course, owned outright the house, stables and gallops inherited from his father.
“Why crétin?” I challenged. “You thought the world of him. Everyone did.”
Even me…
“For a start, he couldn’t keep his adjutant in his trousers. He was also indiscreet…”
That same fog was thinning, replaced by the sickly glow of sodium lights leading to Carmarthen, turning his features a strange. sunbed colour. I had to admit, there’d been times when Danny had followed me upstairs to his room, when I’d wanted him to press himself close. To touch me, but not the way Gilles had done…
“How well did you know him?” Papa went on, taking the major roundabout signed Swansea and M4 too fast. “Really know him?”
“In a sexual way?”
That shocked him.
“I didn’t mean that.”
“Good. And in answer to your loaded question, not much. Remember, I was away at school then College most of the time?” I almost added, “thanks to you,” but refrained, thinking of Mathieu trekking back to Ty Capel and John Lyon stuck there, waiting.
I pulled my cell phone from my riding coat pocket. My best ever present that tante Elisabeth had sent me for my last birthday. I loved its solid shape, the chrome around the front that made it look so American, and I’d had a job to stop Mathieu making annoying calls to the few friends I had. I’d never have played with his Lego garage she’d bought him. Or the toy spaceship, and right now, while hurtling on to the motorway with angry Papa, I wanted to phone Cerys. The one person I’d most kept in touch with since leaving College. She understood. She’d listen.
“What are you doing?” Papa demanded.
“Nothing.”
“Then put it away. We must keep a tight ship. Keep things contained.”
But John Lyon will have to know.
“Elisabeth said I…”
“Leave that bitch out of it,” he barked as the smelting fires of Port Talbot came into view.
“You’ve always hated her, have you? Yet she comforted us more than you did after Maman died. Brought us stuff you’d never have thought of. For you, it’s always been the next horse race, hasn’t it? The next winner’s enclosure, then standing on the podium receiving another bloody trophy. Never me or Maman. Even Danny. Besides, I don’t want Vervain hammered into the ground, if that’s OK with you. It’s way too heavy. I’m also listed as his owner, remember? And if I want to call my best friend, I damn well can.”
He was too quick for me. My precious phone was suddenly in his grip and, in a spit second, he’d wound down his window and thrown it out. I heard its casing crack against the Tarmac, like the cracking of my heart.
*
More silence. More grief. This time until he swerved into a Service Station off the A46 near a place I’d never heard of.
“Stay there, you minx,” he said. “One kid running off’s enough for one day.”
“Fuck you.”
He’d locked me in and I needed a pee. Typical. And then, in the garage forecourt’s hazy, yellow light, noticed his own phone jutting from a storage hole in the dashboard. He was on his way to pay for the fuel.
Now.
An older version of mine, it had already been well used since leaving Ty Capel. He’d contacted a clerk of the course, a chief steward and other racing connections including Kevin who’d not given him an easy ride either. Still worried about Mathieu, he’d said, and how he himself wouldn’t be up to the job. Good. Serve Papa right.
Gilles however, had given all the right answers. Yes, he’d reassured his boss. All was well with the house and the yard.
*
Papa was out of the Gents and cruising the shop’s laden shelves for something. Time for me to call Ty Capel, but there wasn’t even a ring tone.
Dead? Impossible.
Next, I tried a number I’d memorised, just in case.
Too late.
The shop’s door opened and he was outside, checking his receipt.
“Come on. Come on…” I hissed into the phone.
John Lyon was supposed to be in our house…
I then tried Gilles. Rough charm itself. Yes, he said, there was still a light on in the kitchen, so the Anglais must be dozing. And by the way, he’d just given Vervain an apple and a goodnight kiss.
*
Papa threw a Mars Bar into my lap and I threw it back.
“When we see the flics down in Poole,” I said, “I’ll tell them what you’ve just done with my phone. How you won’t let me go for a pee and why your wife had Vervain’s lungeing rope round her neck. I’ll ruin you, you bastard. And when I get back to Wales, me and John Lyon will find Mathieu and we’ll leave for ever.”
I wasn’t worth replying to, was I?
Then his phone rang, making me jump out of my skin.
“Oui?”
A woman’s voice. Hard as ice. I also heard the word ‘Daniel.’
“It’s a matter for the police now,” said Papa, frowning, eyeing his snack, “so I’d appreciate no more calls.”
A pause. Her again. Gemma Lennox, all the way from Northumberland.
“I don’t know of any Will, no,” said Papa. “And it’s the police you should be…”
Call ended with a grunt and a shove of the phone back into the dashboard.
Having turned on the ignition, he unwrapped the Mars bar, pushed it into his mouth, then lobbed the screwed-up wrapper at my face. Now in first gear, we circled too fast out of the forecourt. My head deliberately hitting the window glass.
Crack.
The same sound my phone had made on that wet road, but this glass was too thick for my skull to break. Me a kid all over again in that huge, motherless farmhouse, with Mathieu pretending to be an angel.
Crack…bang…
Papa pulled me away. Us two locked together off-road, until with a lurch, my door opened, releasing me with an ominous thud. His phone rang again, this time unanswered.
*
My jeans smelt of wet grass and pee which, with each stride, grew stronger. But so what? I’d stopped looking after myself when I’d given up College. But had he noticed? Only Danny said my hair deserved better. But that I was still beautiful. And as for Cerys. We’d only kept contct by phone.
Papa was stumbling after me, shouting, threatening all sorts of stuff like how I shouldn’t have left Mathieu behind when I’d taken Vervain out. How Maman would be ashamed of me…
But I was lighter than he on my feet and by a miracle, found a field gate. Its massive padlock didn’t stop me vaulting over and running along the hedge, with him on the other side, falling away. His shouts fading. With my secrets intact, I reached a cinder track that soon led back to the road I remembered. The Mitsubishi just a tilting speck and him nowhere to be seen.
*
The empty bus I’d flagged down in a place called Swainton took me all the way to Bristol. I then shared a taxi with two giggling Japanese students to its Parkway station.
Wet, grim and no sign of a bloody train for an hour, I passed the time staring along the litter-strewn track to nothingness, telling myself I couldn’t have seen Danny dead anyway. Never mind shot in the eye and the heart. Best to remember him just being there. Helping me bring on Vervain to become the fine horse he was. Fearless, strong. A gift from Heaven. At least I had him, and once John Lyon and I had found Mathieu, the three of
us, me, my brother and my horse would go back to Les Tourels, where Maman had come from. At least there, Elisabeth would be nearby. Would help take care of us.
11. John.
Friday 11th March. 8.18 p.m.
The gag took too long to prise off, but it was progress. What I’d not bargained for was the thick. stench filling my throat, my eyes, but so what? All that mattered was that before I’d passed out, I’d definitely heard a young boy’s voice calling, unless the psycho who’d trodden on my hand was playing a sick game.
‘…it’s journey’s end for you and the other one…
I had therefore to believe Mathieu was also on board, and if so, where had he been picked up? Had anyone noticed? Had he known the driver and the mystery woman beforehand? Been glad of a lift home from wherever he’d been? And then I remembered that female stranger whom Laure and Danny Lennox had met earlier. I’d need to check out the Sea Breeze Hotel as soon as I was free. Check too the relationship between her and the driver.
Meanwhile my left hand had been exploring an arc of slimy, filthy boards for something with which to free my ankles. No joy. However, my right hand got lucky. A long, steel strip had come away from the transporter’s side - kicked free no doubt by frightened animals.
Jesus.
If only I had my Dad’s longer arms, I’d have made quicker work of the ankle ropes. As it was, the left one proved arduous to untie, unlike the other one, as the wheels underneath rocked and rolled over every fucking pothole and dangerously steep cambers.
So, I was on all fours, but where was my phone?
Had that criminal helped herself?
Anger and disgust drove my crawl along through the sludge until I could go no further. A partition with a studded steel door blocked off what I guessed was the driver’s cab.
I nudged it ajar into a different darkness. A different smell.
All at once, those wheels began to slow and above their noise came raised voices from yet further away. Male and female. Definitely Welsh. No surprises there, but clearly not happy bunnies.
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