Again DeVilliers nodded. He did indeed understand.
“Good,” Sam said, his expression intense and his gaze unwavering. “So tell me, why was my girlfriend murdered - and who exactly ordered it?”
The colour drained from DeVilliers’ face as he calculated the consequences of answering Sam’s questions, knowing that if he did, he would undoubtedly be held accountable by those he would be betraying.
However, if he did not, he would almost certainly be killed now - right there, in his brand new apartment - and his priority at that precise moment was to stay alive.
Having received no immediate response, Sam made to get up, “I guess you need a little more persuasion,” he said.
“No - No, I’ll tell you, I will,” insisted DeVilliers, shaking his head vigorously, his chubby jowls wobbling.
“Good. Then answer the goddamn question,” Sam demanded.
DeVilliers swallowed with trepidation, then took a deep breath. “Your girlfriend’s death was ordered by a man called Quentin Faraday,” he said nervously, his voice trembling with fear. “She was killed to gain him the leverage he needed over her father, Ekon Sekibo, so that he would grant Faraday’s company, Q-Core, the rights to mine uranium in Niger.”
Sam slumped back in his chair, staggered by what he was hearing.
Could it really be that Claudette had been murdered for something so absurd as a mining contract and that the attack was merely a contrivance to manoeuvre her father, Ekon?
Had Claudette and her unborn child simply been pawns in some obscene power play designed solely to further a company’s fortunes?
Sam listened, utterly appalled, the bile rising in his throat as DeVilliers laid out everything he knew about Faraday’s repeated attempts to coerce Ekon into signing over the mining rights.
Yet after finding him immovable and impossible to bribe, he had finally resorted to having one of the politician’s daughter’s killed, threatening to do the same with his remaining three should Ekon, in his role as Niger’s Minister of Interior, fail to comply with his demands.
DeVilliers went onto reveal Faraday’s intentions once he had secured the mining rights; describing how he planned to build a highly illegal facility for the purposes of enriching the uranium his company had mined. The resulting weapons grade material would then be sold to the world’s most despicable despots and paramilitary organisations for an extortionate price.
Indeed, it was DeVilliers’ understanding that such a facility had now been under construction for some considerable time.
It made for devastating listening.
Sam found himself reeling as the truth of what had happened was finally revealed after eleven long years of thinking that maybe he, or even Claudette herself, had somehow been to blame.
But they had not.
They were merely innocents caught up in Faraday’s evil agenda.
According to DeVilliers and contrary to what Sam had previously believed to be the most logical explanation, there was no racial motivation behind the attack. It was simply a ruse, stage managed to appear racially inspired for maximum effect, aided of course by those chosen to carry out such a heinous crime.
The leader, Locke, had purposely picked a team of racist thugs and neo-Nazi extremists knowing that they were predisposed to committing such atrocities, yet it was all designed to divert attention from the true reason for the attack - known only to Quentin Faraday, James Locke and, of course, Miles DeVilliers himself who, at his client’s behest, had arranged it all.
When at last DeVilliers had finished speaking, Sam was left breathless, it all seemed so inconceivable yet was quite obviously true.
“So where is this Faraday now?” He asked, his voice flat and emotionless.
“Last I heard he was back in Niger,” replied DeVilliers, “personally overseeing the construction of his uranium enrichment facility deep in the Ténéré Desert.
“It was badly behind schedule, as I understand it, and his rather unscrupulous investors were getting quite impatient. Although I believe - much to Quentin’s relief I’m sure - the plant is now close to completion.”
“And Locke - where’s he?” Sam pressed.
DeVilliers balked at the question. Betraying Faraday was one thing but selling out James Locke was something else entirely. “Please, I can’t - you don’t know him - he’s an animal, he’ll kill me—“
Sam leaned in, his eyes menacing and cold. “And you think I won’t?” He snarled.
DeVilliers blinked nervously as he stared into Sam’s resolute face with no doubt in his mind about the answer. However, in that instant he sensed an opportunity.
“If I tell you,” he whimpered, “do you promise not to kill me?”
Sam considered this for a moment. DeVilliers was ruthless and certainly complicit in what had happened to Claudette but he was clearly no killer. Besides, thanks to Roper’s input, they now had more fitting plans for him. But there was no sense in Sam showing his hand too soon.
“Depends if I like your answer,” he said.
Sensing a reprieve, DeVilliers tried to push things a little further. “Assuming that’s the case, do you swear to kill Locke first - before going after Faraday?”
He knew Locke would only be a threat to him if he still lived. However, if he was dead then there would be nothing to fear. Indeed, by killing Locke, Beresford might yet prove to be his salvation, which seemed somewhat ironic.
Sam had also worked this out, but he had no choice. He had to know. “Sure,” he said, “why not.”
“I need your word - as a gentleman,” insisted DeVilliers, “upon the memory of Miss Sekibo.”
Sam gritted his teeth, angry that the pompous peacock before him had the audacity to demand such a thing and had to resist the temptation to throw him off the balcony again for the part he had played in Claudette’s murder, regardless of whether he had been actually present at the scene or not.
However, his desire to find Locke proved to be even greater. “Very well,” he said at last. “You have my word.”
***
Once DeVilliers had revealed all he knew about Locke’s whereabouts, gleaned from the telephone conversation he had received from Miss Markham the night before, he assumed Sam and the mysterious gentleman presently reclining on his antique chaise lounge might finally leave him in peace, relieved to have escaped with his life.
However, Sam had other ideas.
Whilst Pyotr cut the restraining ropes, freeing DeVilliers’ wrists and ankles, Sam delivered his final surprise.
“I’m sure you’re considering yourself quite fortunate to still be alive, am I right?” He asked.
“Yes, of course, thank you,” DeVilliers replied, “you don’t know how grateful I am.”
“I bet,” Sam smiled, not buying a word of it. “I guess you’re feeling pretty proud of yourself, too, huh?”
DeVilliers looked at him quizzically, not liking where this was going. “Might I remind you that you gave me your word?” He said, suddenly fearing for his life once more.
“And I fully intend to keep it,” replied Sam, “assuming you do as you’re told.”
“I don’t understand, what do you mean?” DeVilliers was puzzled, had he missed something?
“Everything that has happened here tonight,” continued Sam, “has been recorded. We have it all on video tape - captured for posterity in glorious Technicolor. Every word, every name, every revolting detail, which my policeman friend upstairs has been listening to this whole time.
“Indeed, I suspect he’ll think it more than enough to put you away for many years.”
DeVilliers was suddenly indignant. “It won’t work, recording or not - I have the best solicitors in the whole of England - and I can assure you I won’t stay in prison for a day longer than absolutely necessary.”
“Maybe not,” Sam replied.
“But remember, I can get to you anywhere - be it here, your yacht in Monaco, the villa in Cap d’Antibes - or whatever dark corner of the earth you try to hide in. Nowhere will be safe - as Brendan Williams and Darius Purcell both found out to their cost - so I recommend you accept your punishment or I swear to you, I will be back to exact my own.”
DeVilliers was in no doubt as a wave of fear washed over him. The indigence he had previously shown was suddenly gone, replaced by a look of utter defeat as the bitter truth slowly sunk in.
There would be no more fine dining, no more penthouses or yachts and certainly no more pretty young men.
Because life as Miles DeVilliers knew it was now well and truly over and Sam could not have been more delighted.
***
As dawn slowly rose over Canary Wharf, Roper Coyle accompanied Miles DeVilliers to a waiting police van and watched as he climbed in next to his bodyguards, Robert and Leon, both of whom were still groggy from the effects of the sleeping gas.
As paid accomplices of DeVilliers, they could each expect to receive custodial sentences. However Coyle would see to it that they served their time in separate prisons, far away from their employer so that he would no longer be able to rely on their protection.
“Do you think DeVilliers will help with the other case you mentioned - the one that led you to The Ritz yesterday?” Sam asked as Roper slammed the van door shut.
“Who knows?” He replied. “Only time will tell. Although I suspect the Khan brothers will be long gone once they hear that DeVilliers has been arrested - especially if he has information that might compromise them in some way. In fact, I’d be surprised if they weren’t on a plane out of the country within the next few hours.”
“I’m sorry.” Sam said honestly.
“Don’t be.” Smiled Coyle. “I dare say I’ll catch up with them again at some point in the future.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I’m sure I am - I can feel it in my bones. Me and the Khan brothers are definitely not done, believe me.”
“Well, good luck then,” Sam said, offering his hand. “Thanks for everything - and thanks for trusting me, I’m not sure many in your position would.”
“Hey, I’m just glad I can finally close the book on this case,” Roper shrugged as he grasped Sam’s hand and shook it firmly. “Although I know it won’t be over for you until you catch up with Faraday and Locke.”
“I’ll get ‘em. I promise,” Sam said with absolute certainty.
“I know you will,” agreed Roper. “But if you need me - you know where I am.”
He then turned to Miri who was standing beside Sam. “Goodbye Dr. Dufour,” he said, offering his hand.
However, she instead leaned in and hugged him tightly, then kissed him on both cheeks, as was the French way, “Au revoir, Detective Inspector, “bonne chance.”
Coyle smiled, flushing slightly with unexpected emotion. “You, too,” he said.
Pausing for a just moment longer to study the pair of them together, he then turned and climbed back into his parked Mondeo.
A few seconds later, Sam and Miri, standing arm in arm and both smiling warmly, watched as their new friend, Detective Inspector Roper Coyle, drove off into the distance.
He was a very good man.
Part Seven:
French Resistance
Chapter Forty-Eight
Paris, France, 2004
Locke awoke with a terrible headache, still tired after twelve hours of fitful sleep. During the night he had roused several times; the sheets drenched with sweat as they had been on many previous occasions.
Indeed, he was constantly tired lately, yet an unbroken night’s sleep seemed to elude him. Along with the night sweats he suffered a continual throbbing from the swellings in his groin and armpit which also caused him to wake.
The lumps had appeared a couple of months earlier, accompanied by dreadful bouts of crippling diarrhoea which still plagued him day and night.
Slowly he rolled over and sat up on the edge of the iron-framed bed, the springs of the soiled mattress groaning with age. He reached for the packet of Gitanes on the bare wooden floor and tapped one out of the battered packet, immediately lighting it up with a cheap Bic lighter and sucking deeply to feel the rewarding kick of nicotine hit the back of his dry throat.
The cigarettes had become a serious habit back in Marseille, as had many other things, but it was of little consequence now.
As he blew out a thick plume of grey smoke he was suddenly afflicted by a violent coughing fit, his chest aching as his lungs heaved in protest to the noxious invasion of tar.
When the fit finally subsided, he hacked up a gob of thick, brown phlegm and spat it onto the floor of the squalid little room he had been renting for the past three weeks. It was situated above a sex shop on the Rue Saint-Denis, amongst the prostitutes and drug traffickers with whom he was now well acquainted.
He was not really certain of the specific moment his decline had begun but suspected it was shortly after arriving in Marseille where, ironically, he had hoped to regain his fitness.
But a life of depravity soon took over as it had always threatened to when he had been in that city before.
Quickly he succumbed to its many temptations; sex, violence, drugs and debauchery, attacking each with a sense of reckless abandonment, spawned from too many years of abstinence whilst in Faraday’s employ.
This degenerate lifestyle soon took its toll on his once supremely impressive body. His muscle turned to fat, the healthy lustre of his tanned face turned to a pallid grey and his neatly cropped silver hair was allowed to grow out into a spiky bush.
He was trapped in a downward spiral that he just could not climb out of and burning through money at a frightening rate - but he did not care.
Weeks swiftly blurred into months and his descent into oblivion was very nearly complete, until one morning when he woke up on the cement floor of a cold warehouse just before dawn.
For it was then that he at last realised the depths to which he had sunk.
He was naked and covered in blood; the mutilated body of a young black man lying beside him. The dead man’s face was unrecognisable due to the terrible injuries he had sustained and an empty syringe was sticking out of an arm polka-dotted with the tell-tale track marks of a junkie.
It was clear to Locke that he had committed the murder as his knuckles were torn and bruised and his hands were stained red with blood. There was more blood, mingled with faeces and the dried residue of sex on his flaccid penis.
He did not know exactly what had happened but it was just one of several such incidents in recent weeks, yet the brutal nature of this one in particular proved to be something of a stark awakening.
He left the warehouse and returned to his apartment just as the sun was coming up, before anyone could see him.
Once inside, he showered for a long time, standing under the hot, refreshing stream and scrubbing his skin until all traces of blood and detritus were washed from his body.
When at last he was clean, he took an electric razor to his hair and trimmed it into a neat buzz cut once more.
He then dressed, packed a bag and headed to the railway station to catch the first train bound for Paris, knowing he had to flee Marseille before he could be seduced by its dark delights again.
That was three weeks earlier and even though Paris had proved almost as tempting, he had so far refrained from succumbing to its charms.
Indeed, he knew the only antidote was to get back to work - to take an assignment, any assignment - which would help him regain his focus.
After all, his talent for killing was one which should be richly rewarded, not practiced for free in the haphazard manner he had gone about it in Marseille.
But thankfully, common sense had at last prevailed.
What is more, ha
ving spent so much money during his self-destructive sabbatical, he was now greatly in need of the riches his chosen profession could provide him.
So, upon reaching the French capital, he had telephoned DeVilliers’ office, declaring to Miss Markham that he was ready to go back to work.
She called back within a few minutes to say that DeVilliers would meet him there, in Paris, in three weeks - the earliest his busy schedule would possibly allow.
This was clearly a power play on DeVilliers’ part; a show of his displeasure at Locke’s disrespectful treatment of Faraday and the complete lack of communication from him since.
It was simply not professional and not what was expected of a man such as he.
Nonetheless, it irked Locke that he had to wait as it was not what he was accustomed to, but he knew DeVilliers had every right to be angry so had little choice but to agree to his terms.
However, he had hoped the interim period would give him a chance to regain some of his fitness but it had proved impossible.
It was now the day of the meet and instead of being fit he felt even more unhealthy.
He stood up, from where he had been sitting on the edge of the metal-framed bed, and crossed to the cracked mirror which hung behind the door of the small attic room.
He gazed at himself, standing there naked, disgusted by what he saw.
Gone was the prime physical specimen with the proud military bearing he had once been - so admired by men and women alike. Gone, too, was the thicker torso he had developed whilst overseeing Faraday’s plant in Niger - gained through months of boredom and inactivity.
In fact, his reflection now showed a much leaner man, bordering on skinny; the bones of his rib cage clearly defined and his sunken stomach seeming almost starved. His face, too, once carved and strong was now sharp and angular, marred by unsightly cold sores which had further ailed him in recent months.
Locke put his dramatically altered appearance down to his months of debauched living in Marseille, certain that it was only a matter of time before he returned to his former glory. Indeed, a lucrative assignment from DeVilliers would assure him a better diet, a higher standard of living and a cleaner, healthier existence.
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