The Nighthawk

by Sally Spedding

  Ms. Ryjlel? Damn him! If I could only get myself out of here….

  “May I remind you, my name is Karen Fürst. Doctor Karen Fürst.”

  Was that a quiver of amusement behind his surgical mask?

  Meannwhile, bottled-up anger had brought a dtrange, bubbling sensation throughout my body. Everywhere in fact, except my left foot.

  “What day is it today?” I asked.

  “Tuesday, April 22nd”

  “It’s too dark outside. Where’s the sun?”

  “Waiting for you.” Then another tiny, throaty chuckle.

  “She’s requested her handbag, doctor. It’s been almost a week now.” John reminded him from the doorway, next to Jacques Anniot who, like that other guard, never let me see that poppies card. “Where’s it been left?”

  “Sorry, Monsieur Lyon. Got confused. Never came with her.” Sister Sichel fiddling with my pillow. “Up to the law now.”

  “I’ll make some checks,” John whispered, still there.

  Not with the flics, you won’t...

  “There’s something else I meant to tell you yesterday. Joel’s funeral’s being held at sea.”

  I was right.

  “Who says?”

  He paused. I knew what was coming next.

  “The gendarmerie.”

  I tried to raise myself further up the bed, but that fucking, keen nurse pinned me down.

  “Where at sea exactly?”

  He glanced from side to side. The guard called Anniot hissed something to him.

  “I can’t say. OK?”

  “I’m his employer.”

  “Was...” quipped pushy Sichel. Keeping me in my place.

  “Try and calm down,” purred Dr. Gamelin, who then wrapped a thick, black sphygnanomometer so tight around my upper arm, I felt faint again. Sister Sichel released her grip on me to fiddle with the oxygen, then shoved the tubes even further up my nose till they scraped against bone. All the while, my spine felt as if ablaze, yet I could move from side to side. Even my legs…

  Thank you, God. Are you listening?

  Meanwhile Dr. Gamelin and the new nurse were leaning over me the way shoppers inspect meat, muttering together until John’s voice cut through like a harvester in a cornfield.

  “I must speak to Karen again. It could be a matter of life and death.”

  “Monsieur Lyon,” snapped the nurse, “too much stimulus at this stage, could cause a major setback, We’re on the cusp of recovery.”

  My pulse throbbed violently beneath that ever-tightening torture, especially when John suddenly shouted out, ignoring Sister Sichel’s warning, making me start.

  “Karen, your elder brother might be coming to kill you! If you know why, for God’s sake, tell me!”

  *

  Dr.Gamelin stopped pumping, drew in his breath, but mine didn’t come.

  “I’ve no idea,” I burbled. “Anyhow, none of the three men survived. It’s impossible. I’d have known by now.”

  “At least one of them bloody did! You’d better believe it, Karen. It’s Joop. And I’m staying right here with Jacques Anniot in case he shows up.”

  Jésu help me…

  Then came sounds of another commotion. Anniot’s turn to shout. “Hang on! A Mevrou Schenken’s just arrived. Says she’s a family friend with some vital news…”

  That nosy bitch?

  “She can’t be!” John clamped both hands to his head. “I saw her earlier

  today. In Rotterdam.”

  Is he kidding?

  If not, what had he been up to with that old troublemaker? Was I hearing things?

  Headstrong Herman, all over again...

  “Her plane leaves Perpignan airport in three hours. It’s for Doctor Gamelin to decide if she can visit.” The guard added.

  “You go, Bernice,” snapped the tense medic. “I can manage.”

  She soon deserted my bed, vanishing into the corridor.

  *

  “Your Dutch friend seems very nice,” Anniot smiled on her return. “Rather like my own Maman in fact.” Then he gestured for the visitor to come into my cubicle. Someone else who, despite her efforts at disguise, I knew only too well. No way was this the stupid Rotterdamer busy-body poor Moeder put up with for too long.

  “It’s not Mevrouw Schenken!” I screeched till it hurt. “Quick! Get her out of here!”

  John and the stupid, porky Jacques Anniot were yelling too, but, as that all-too familiar sweet and solvent whiff of chloroform met my nose, both men seemed to evaporate while Sophie Blumenthal prodded my breasts. Breasts she’d never had…

  Canigou, all over again…

  “You’re the dissembler,” she hissed. “Living in Holland with Herman and your other cling-ons, my arse! Doctor of Music to boot. But then what’s changed, hein? You cook up lies like normal people do dinners.” Her warm spit landed on my face. That creature with the fringed shawl, stinky skirt and badly buttoned-up cardigan was wearing a smart coat and matching pillbox hat, with bag to match.

  Mine.

  Even my Cartier watch was on her cattle-bone wrist. How come? Was she hoping to get rich for the first time in her miserable life? Fat chance.

  Barely conscious, I still couldn’t raise myself enough to see where John and that dumb guard were, because she and Sister Sichel suddenly crashed my bed against the door frame. Next came that masked doctor I should have recognised earlier.

  *

  Into the lift; doors closed and down we all went. I moved to the edge of the bed, to fall off and cause a delay, but a firm hand kept me in place.

  “Well, well, dear little night owl that you are,” its owner cooed. “After all this time. Who’d have believed it? Expert in motivated forgetting from the day you sadly were born. We’ll have to see what a little more chloroform can do... “

  Jozeph?

  The same voice as up on the Canigou. Those supple, sinewy movements I’d known so well. Only his teeth which, without that mask, looked too false, too new were any different. I had to keep awake. To live at all costs.

  John, where the Hell are you?

  Joop patted his white overall’s pocket. I recognised the shape of my beloved Spreewerk.

  Jésu.

  “Thanks be to God,” he crossed himself. “And to your Dr. Baerck who passed on some very interesting information.”

  “What the fuck do you mean?” My eyes began to close. His voice becoming a blur…

  “A hairline vertebral fracture is hardly a break, dear sister. Most people recover within weeks. My, my, what a complicated and may I say it, painful lie you’ve been living for so long.”

  Just then, the Clinic’s alarm, eerie and continuous, followed us out into the tumultuous night, where palm trees swayed and where John Lyon would soon be on his way to save me. Again.

  I screamed out Joop’s evil name, over and over.

  Then came utter blackness...

  Chapter 60. John.

  Wednesdaay 23rd April. 07:15 hours.

  A sheepish Jacques Anniot and myself spent the night side by side in one of the Clinic’s Recovery rooms, murmuring names and places that were nothing to do with the previous evening’s bizarre and dangerous events. Yet apparently, on waking, ‘Liesbet’ was my first word.

  We’d both been violently sick from a heavy dose of chloroform, and only when an orderly came to unlock the door and the one barred window, did its sour legacy dissolve.

  Where the Hell had she gone?

  “Some woman of yours, that,” said the ex-Capitaine as if psychic, He sat on his single bed, in no rush to leave, slowly checking his belongings and his Browning High Power were where he’d left them.

  “Sorry I fucked up,” he said. “Could have been serious. If only we’d had Cordier…”

  “I’m not so sure. It was all too well organised,” I said, stumbling still light-headed towards the door. “We never stood a chance. Nor did Karen, what with that fake ambulance lined up. Even sly Sister Sichel must have been specially rec
ruited somewhere along the line. Lucky we didn’t each get a hole in head is all I can say.”

  Anniot nodded, turning green again. “And to think that Doc with the weirdly- smooth skin and bedside manner was the long-lost elder brother.”

  “Notice his spot concealer?” I added, recalling those veins I’d seen at Les Platanes, also mentally listing what I’d found at his house. I again thought of the duplicitous Sophie Blumenthal and why she’d visited Karen’ bedside. Had she and Joop Ryjkel become an item? Hard to imagine. Impossible, in fact. And where was that promised guard of hers? Posted elsewhere, like Lieutenant Cordier? Filling more urgent holes? All too late, anyway.

  “I’ve not really trusted anyone since the day I joined the Force, thirty-two years ago,” I said. “And nothing’s changed my mind.”

  “Strong stuff, Monsieur.”

  “It’s true.”

  “You off, then?” Anniot, finally zipped up his rucksack.

  “Places to go...”

  “What about your witness statement?”

  “Look, could you wheel it in for me?”

  “But Colonel Giraud’ll be here at nine. Top brass.”

  “Never heard of him. Anyway, can’t wait that long. Sorry. Got to find Karen. Urgent.”

  “He’ll string you up. Got a lot of clout, he has. Best buddies with Serrado.”

  Let him.

  “By the way,” Anniot was smoothing his ragged hair in front of a small mirror. “Why did I have to tell your lover it wasn’t betrayal?”

  “Not my lover.”

  “OK.”

  “Long story.”

  *

  Still encased in the kind of blur I’d experienced when my parents, Sandra and Clive Lyon perished in their new Hillman Hunter on an unmanned railway crossing in East Anglia, I discharged myself from the Clinique Sablon into a chilly, grey day too full of grim possibilities.

  I’d left my two-page statement with the compliant Capitaine, but realised to keep Giraud, Serrado and the rest of that Brigade on board, I’d better make contact.

  Burger King, filling up with hungry punters and Cher whining from its ceiling speakers would do fine. No time for a drink to kill the stink in my mouth. Even a sesame bun was off limits. And so far, no early editions of any local rag anywhere.

  I found a vacant, three-sided booth, aware that my latest phone card showed ten units left.

  “We could have done with Lieutenant Cordier at the Clinic,” was my opener.

  “And you should have hung on for us,” snapped Serrado, also still pissed off that I’d buggered off at Les Pins and worse, the Suzmans’ planned trip to Pau yesterday had led him completely up the garden path. Also, that the Banyuls house was empty, with no trace of any missing persons, gipsy and other children’s clothes or choice memories from any hard drive. His team had been given the slip. Big time. He’d lost face and the Chef d’Escadron was not best pleased.

  “I’ll need that statement from you personally, by tonight.”

  “But where’s Liesbet? I must find her.”

  “Liesbet now, hein? His withering tone unmistakeable.

  He was right. For me, Karen Fürst really had died last night. Yet despite the real Tusia Schenken’s jaundiced opinion of her, it was still a lonely, unloved, and possibly sexually abused eight- year-old I had to reach.

  Pause.

  Serrado was too fond of his little games, but right now, I needed him more than he needed me. The difference being Herman Oudekerk and my lack of a weapon.

  “We’re getting there,” he said finally. “Just traced land line phone calls from Joop Ryjkel during his most recent stay at Les Platanes,” said the Capitaine. “He’s been very busy indeed. And careless to assume these communications are unchecked. Also, his thumb print was on that poppies card you saw. Bit careless, that.”

  I don’t do shädenfreud, but the following silence said it all. Then Serrado spoke again. “Although we still don’t know where Liesbet Ryjkel is, at 06.00 hours yesterday, her brother contacted Michel Suzman in Saint-Antoine to suggest Port-Vendres as a more suitable venue than Pau to scatter Joel Dutroux’s remains. Not good news for us. More risky there, and I’m betting she’ll be going with them. All very odd.”

  “Any sighting of her handbag?”

  “Not so far.”

  “Another weapon on the loose, then. A wartime Spreewerk.”

  “She’ll be lucky.”

  *

  A cleaner was advancing, giant mop swinging around the tiles by my feet. The combination of disinfectant and dirt made me heave again, already on that unpredictable Mediterranean Sea, rising, falling...

  “As for Doctor Kurt Gamelin, that large, red suitcase I’d seen at Les Platanes was obviously to carry his fake gear, How he and that so-called nurse conned their way into the Clinic, defies belief.”

  “Not good publicity, that’s for sure. And those imposters could be around for a while yet. The Café des Marins in Port-Vendres have alerted us and Perpignan about more activity, so we’ll soon be on our way.”

  “Did ssomeone go all the way up to the scene of Joel’s suicide and gather up the leftovers?”

  “Yes. More quickly than our GIGN team, I’m ashamed to say. Although our guys only found three porcelain crowns that survived the heat, they at least matched Joel Dutroux’s dental records. However, nothing to suggest there’d been any Glock”

  The cook who’d paid to make himself look good, had proved me wrong.

  “All too late,” I added bleakly. “But Martine Mannion saw Joel and Father Jérôme deep in conversation not long ago. Perhaps this priest had some kind of hold over his excluded brother. Inflicted an impossible guilt about his mother and grandmother. Guilt too, for letting his employer down.” I almost added that Christianity had much to answer for.

  “Who knows? But certainly, his Peugeot van’s tyre tracks exactly match those we found up on the Canigou. And a Mademoiselle Petsha has helpfully confirmed the 8 cwt. vehicle she’d seen at the Abbey was his.”

  “Some man of God,” I muttered, proud of Mireille’s initiative and courage.

  Meanwhile, the zealous cleaner had gone. In her place, a young Arab lad now waited behind me, a sheaf of grubby papers in his hand. Desperation on his face.

  Serrado was speaking again.

  “Our three Chinooks should pick up any more unusual activity around Port-Vendres. You’ve heard of ‘la Crevasse?”

  “Yes. My brother-in-law once mentioned an apparently bottomless area of ocean just miles from the coast. By the way,” I added, sensing that lad’s growing impatience to get to my phone. “Where’s Sophie Blomenthal now?”

  “We don’t know. Probably linked up with the funeral party. Her home’s being searched and it seems there’s been bitter rivalry between her and this Alize Saporo. Could explain that arson attempt you witnessed in Dansac, although you saw no car driving away afterwards.”

  “Anyone’s guess,” I said, suddenly exhausted. “But all I know is, Liesbet Ryjkel’s a wanted woman. Why? What am I missing?”

  “Remember my opinion?”

  Nausea again.

  “How could I not?”

  “In the autumn of 1985, while still in Holland, she paid Robert Taillot five

  thousand pounds stirling for a brand-new identity. Big moolah. Both phone records prove it, too.”

  “Why stirling?”

  “Stronger against the franc and likely to stay so. He had accounts everywhere. We ttoo, have proof.”

  Silence.

  “Another warning, Monsieur Lyon. Keep out now. Keep safe. This is complicated. A possible War Crimes investigation apart from anything else.”

  About time too.

  I took a deep breath.

  “In that case, I can confirm that Pablo Lopez of Dansac, Girard Mannion from Carcassonne and Monsignor André Besson from the Abbaye Saint-Polycarpe, were the three so-called helpers in that tunnel of death. Plenty more if you want it. I’ve also proof of a special railway link
running east to connect with existing routes to Drancy. Two remnants of it are still in my car.”

  “You’ve done enough. Time to back off. Understood? There’ll be too many weapons in Port-Vendres. Karen Fürst’s are still missing and unlicensed for a start.

  I didn’t know that…

  Now, Monsieur Lyon, time to make a move.”

  The Arab lad began to fidget and hop from one foot to the other. I had to say what was in my heart. I had to.

  “But I love her.”

  Four simple words hiding a complicated truth, and with my phone card just out of credits, I left the booth. That troubled lad giving me the only smile there’d be that day. And too late I realised I’d not mentioned my interesting meeting with Thea Oudekerk.

  *

  I drove past Perpignan’s endless apartment blocks and through its snarled-up streets as fast as the morning rsh-hour traffic would allow. My mouth still tasted foul, my heart as if I’d run a marathon. Even the coast road past Argelès was busy with

  caravans out in force. People enjoying themselves, while roadside plane trees sprouted new leaves, softening the dark blur of the Albères mountains dividing France from Spain. The same way I’d come with Liesbet…

  The wind was still up. The temperature dropping. My judgement about key players had been hi-jacked at every turn, yet some things were clear. Joop Ryjkel wanted his sister dead, and all her three trusted staff had, one by one, left her alone.

  Ben Rogers all over again.

  But not quite…

  Anger kept my foot on the Volvo’s accelerator up the winding road whose views of the Mediterranean must make first-time tourists gape in awe. Past kiosks selling local wine, with dégustations a-plenty in progress; past vineyards more advanced than those in Saint-Antoine and lay-bys full of cars topped by surf boards or towing dinghies. To me, all this joie de vivre seemed surreal. Grotesquely surreal. How could I square this scene with another unfolding somewhere hidden and possibly even more deadly than a sheltered plateau on Mount Canigou? A unique and indomitable woman with whom I’d fallen in love, had, since the age of eight, been in mortal danger. A woman moreover, who’d just lost three of her toes.

  *

  09:10 hours. I had to somehow get her to safety. To watch her heal and become the person she’d once wanted to be, but I had one more job to do.