I look up at the window. Even if I stand on tippy-toes, even if I climb on the bench, I won’t reach it. I know I can’t get out that way, but if at least I could get an idea of where I am, well, I don’t know – somehow it would make me feel better. Less panicked. If only I could get higher – I look at the wine racks that reach up tall and I have a ridiculous idea but I have to try it. I climb onto the bench, then, very, very carefully, I reach over and put a foot on one of the rows of full bottles in the rack next to it. They stand firm. The rack is big, heavy, well-constructed, made of very solid wood, with each bottle securely ensconced in its niche. I slide across even more carefully. I am poised on the row of bottles now that stick out like a fragile set of steps. Holding my breath, I lever myself up. Rack and bottles stand firm. I am getting closer to the window. Up another rung, and one of the bottles under me wobbles. The breath catches in my throat. But the wobble stops. I go up another level. I am almost there. One more row, and I’ll...
I am up there, holding onto the stone window ledge. Now I can look up and out. Not that there’s much to see, except for long grass and a low dark huddle in the distance that might be another building – a shed, perhaps? A barn? Something like that, I think.
I’m not in town, I think. Not in the woods, either. I’m in the country. On a farm, probably.
It’s then that I turn my head and I see it. High on the wall in a corner, hidden from sight from below because of the dimness and the wine racks, there’s a grating – a crude ventilator. It’s open. That’s where the air is coming from.
Very carefully, I ease myself across from the ledge, reaching for the next wine rack. If I can manage to slide along, I might just reach the grating. My foot slips but I manage to steady myself. Thank God, the wine racks are rock solid. They don’t budge, though the bottles are a different matter. If they slip completely, I’m going to end up on the floor in a tumble of wine and broken glass. I don’t suppose it will do me much good. But I can’t just sit there and do nothing. I’m not made like that. It’s not that I’m brave – far from it. In fact, it’s because I’m so scared. Scared to do nothing. Scared to just sit there, with all the possibilities of what might happen to me going round and round in my head. I can’t cope with that. I can’t bear the fear.
I’m almost at the grating now. Just one more step and I’ll be there. And suddenly, I hear the sound of a key rattling in the lock. I am seized with terror. He’s coming! He mustn’t find me up here! I take a wild, mad leap backwards and by some miracle manage to land on the dirt floor unharmed without bringing the bottles down with me. I fling myself near the bench, far from the grating, and huddle with my knees drawn up, my arms around my chest, my head down. My heart is pounding so hard I am sure he will hear it when he comes in. He will think it is only fear. Instinctively, I know that’s what he must think.
The door opens, then shuts. He comes towards me. I look up, fearfully. He has one of those Tilley-type lamps in his hand, a briefcase, and a plastic bag, which he puts on the bench. ‘There’s some food there. Water. Once you tell me what’s going on.’ His voice is cool, unemotional, with one of those neutral Australian accents.
I stare at him. ‘Metell you?’
‘Who you are, really, will do, for a start. What you’re doing in St-Bertrand. Why you’ve been poking around into things that aren’t your business. Don’t lie, I’ll know if you do.’ The pale blue eyes that had looked so ferocious and alien against the black balaclava are now as cool and unemotional as his voice. He has an unremarkable middle-aged face under the well-cut salt and pepper hair, and with his balaclava off and casual clothes on, he hardly looks like a master criminal, and more like a fit businessman on holiday. But I know with a gripping in my chest that this man is both very dangerous and very intelligent, and that I’d better not stuff him around.
I swallow. ‘I’m Sylvie Mandon. I’m on holidays in St-Bertrand with my aunt and my sister. That’s all. I swear. I don’t understand why you...’
He surveys me coolly, but says nothing. Instead, he reaches for the briefcase, and opens it. And with a sinking heart I realise it’s one of those sorts that incorporates space for your laptop. There is one in there. He pulls it out, switches it on, brings up an image that I recognise at once. He looks at me. There’s a faint, frigid smile in the depths of his eyes.
‘You took Freddy’s computer,’ I say, hopelessly.
‘Of course. I could hardly leave it there for them to examine,’ he drawled.
I say, defiantly, ‘My friend will tell the police. He knows. I told him.’
Something flickers in his glance. ‘I don’t think he will. I don’t think he can,’he says, softly, and looking into those cold eyes, a terrifying thought flashes across my brain. I have no idea what happened after I was knocked out. If Mick got there before the man got away with me – what – what would have happened to him? Of course the guy wouldn’t just leave him there to tell everyone, any more than he’d leave the computer. But to kidnap two people at once wasn’t practical. He’d have had to deal with Mick in some other way. I remembered Gabriel’s nanny, who’d been attacked so savagely she was still in a coma.
‘Please,’ I say, my throat constricting. ‘Please – my friend – is he badly hurt?’
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he growls, ‘Enough. Stop stalling and tell me why you were on that site.’ He jabs a thumb at the laptop screen. ‘Why were you interested in that picture?’
Nausea is rising in me. I can’t help thinking of Mick, beaten to a pulp – left for dead – and I think it’s partly my fault, getting involved in things I couldn’t control or understand. But I try to make my voice steady. ‘I saw you in the street. I recognised you from the picture.’
‘That doesn’t explain why you should look for that picture. I brought up the search history. I know what search terms you used.’ He leans towards me, and hisses, ‘Thomas Radic Wedding Heaven Belgium.I want to know why.’
‘Why what?’
His eyes narrow. ‘Don’t be smart, girl. It tries my patience. If you want to get out of here in one piece, you better tell me the truth, and fast. What was it to you what happened to Tom?’
Tom, I think. Not Radic, or Mr Radic, or Thomas, even, but Tom. That spoke of a close relationship. Not an employee, then, but a friend, or more likely – I look into the pale blue eyes and suddenly, with a thrill of horror, I am back in Wedding Heaven, turning my head to see the young guy coming in the door, and our eyes meeting. His eyes were blue, pale blue. ‘But you’re not his father. I know you’re not.’
He is caught by surprise. Something like pain flashes in his eyes. ‘That’s right. I’m his father’s brother. His uncle. He was my favourite nephew. We spent a lot of time together.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, and I really mean it. ‘I really am. It was – it was horrible.’
He stares at me, and I see the expression in his eyes change, from grief to ferocity. He growls, ‘What would you know?’
‘I was there,’ I say, sadly. ‘I was in Wedding Heaven that day with my sister, to see Helen kitted out and–’ I break off, unable to continue.
He looks at me for a long moment, then he says, blankly, ‘You were a witness to his murder?’
I stare, unable to believe my ears. ‘He wasn’t murdered, Mr Radic. He shot himself ... in front of us. In front of us.’
‘Shut up. He was murdered,’ he says, low, savagely. A wild light comes into his eyes. ‘Murdered by that crooked bastard Udo as surely as though he’d put the gun to poor Tom’s head and pulled the trigger. Tom was, he was fragile. He trusted people. He believed–’ His fists clench. ‘He was naive. If only he’d told me at the time–’ He stops, takes a deep breath. ‘He told me later, but it was too late. I started investigations. I got a hint of the involvement of Fox Financial, and Udo. But I didn’t have enough. I needed him to make a complaint but poor Tom ... he was ashamed, in denial ... and his mind was breaking down. And then–’ He stopped, then resumed more strong
ly, ‘So. You claim to be a witness to the death of my poor nephew. But your name wasn’t in the papers.’
‘There were quite a lot of witnesses,’ I say, drearily. ‘Most of us didn’t have our names in, especially if they’re under-age, like me.’
‘I can check that easily, you know.’
I shrug.
‘Why then are you consorting with the family of his killer. Why?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘The Aubrac boys. Udo’s nephews. You know he’s the bastard who destroyed Tom. You know that. Don’t pretend to deny it.’
I say, ‘I don’tknow it, Mr Radic. I only know there have been hints that Udo isn’t the squeaky-clean businessman he claims to be. And I met Daniel and Gabriel by chance. I had no idea who their uncle was. They don’t even have the same name as him. Even if they did, it would have meant absolutely nothing to me at the time.’
‘You expect me to believe that?’
‘It’s the truth. You can check.’
‘Hmm,’ is all he says.
The softening of his tone emboldens me. ‘Please, I’m sure they don’t know anything. It’s not their fault. Please let them go. What harm have they ever done to you? Keep me if you must but please let Daniel and Gabriel go.’
‘Very touching,’ he says, with a sneer. ‘But you’re worth nothing to Udo. He doesn’t know you from Adam. He doesn’t care if you live or die. His nephews, however, that’s a different story. That bastard will learn what real suffering is.’ A look comes into his eyes that terrifies me.
‘Please,’ I say, desperately. ‘Maybe you are right, and Mr Udo did run the horrible scam that trapped your nephew – but you’ve asked for an investigation into his doings. You’ve made your point. Please let the boys go. You’ve got to let the police deal with it, let justice take its course.’
‘Justice! There is no justice,’ he says bleakly, ‘not when bastards like Udo can draw a respectable veil over their rottenness and swan around in society while their victims die of despair. And the police? You don’t know them like I do. They don’t care. The criminal to them is not the wicked man who has grown fat devouring other men’s souls – not the vile spider who has trapped so many poor naive flies in his web – but the man who tries to avenge his own blood!’ The colour rises in his cheeks, the blue eyes glint with a fanatic’s gleam.
I swallow. ‘Please, Mr Radic, I do understand–’
‘No, you don’t,’ he says, harshly. ‘You have no idea. Steve and I, we are the only ones to do anything. Not even Tom’s own parents have lifted a finger. My brother is a weak man. Spineless. Useless. What does honour mean to him? Less than nothing.’
Steve, I think. Who’s Steve? His accomplice, obviously. A Radic connection of some sort, presumably – a friend, an associate? I have no idea. In any case, it’s a hint as to how he was able to pull off the kidnaps so smoothly. They had been two-man jobs.
‘But Mr Radic,’ I try again, ‘Daniel and Gabriel are innocent. They know nothing about their uncle’s crimes.’
‘They’re his kin,’ he says, without expression. ‘Bait to trap the wolf. That’s what they’re worth to me. Blood for blood.’
My head swims. ‘Oh God, you’re not. Please, God, you’re not–’ I am seized with such terror and love for my darling Daniel, and sweet little Gabriel, that I think I’m going to faint with the strength of it. I throw myself at his feet, clutch his knees. ‘Please, Mr Radic, I beg you, don’t kill them. Don’t kill them! Do anything to me, but don’t hurt them!’
‘Get up, girl,’ he snaps. There is a strange mixture of emotions on his face. Disgust, I think – anger – contempt – but maybe, just maybe a little – a little pity? My voice breaks with the tears I don’t even try to stop. ‘Mr Radic, you loved your nephew. How can destroying two innocents bring him back or be a fitting memorial to him? How could that be worthy of his memory? Please, Mr Radic, please–’
There is a long silence. Then he says, ‘I haven’t hurt those boys. And I have no intention of killing them. I want Udo, not them. But he would never come and face me of his own will. He is a coward hiding behind his respectable facade and his lawyers. Only by striking at his kin could I force him to come and face me and make him accountable for what he’s done. All I want from them is to persuade him to come to me. I’ve spoken to the older boy. He knows what I want. He doesn’t want to talk to his uncle. I respect that – I understand honour – but time is of the essence, and I cannot afford to be sentimental. They will have to persuade their wicked uncle to make a move, or I will lose my patience. Once Udo’s here, once I have what I want from him, they can go to Timbuktu for all I care.’
I didn’t want to ask what he wanted from Udo. I feared asking, and I feared the answer. But worrying about what might happen to Benedict Udo at the hands of this fanatic wasn’t something I had any time to consider. All I could think about was what if Udo didn’t come, and Daniel and Gabriel were still at the mercy of this man. What would happen then? I could have no illusions. This was the same man – or his accomplice – who had savagely beaten poor Pilar and done God knew what to Mick – this was the same merciless avenger who thought nothing of terrifying a little boy like Gabriel and snatching Daniel for no other reason than he was ‘bait’. This was not a man you could trust. He operated by his own rules, ruthless, cruel and primitive. You couldn’t trust him, and it was difficult to outwit him. But if we stayed at his mercy, there was no guarantee of anything at all. I couldn’t be sure he would not hurt the boys, or even not kill them, if it suited his purpose, if it was the only way to make Udo do what he wanted.
I say, gently, ‘Mr Radic, will you let me see Daniel and Gabriel? Will you let me talk to them? Perhaps I can persuade them to speak to their uncle – to make him really understand that you are serious about it but that they have nothing to fear. I am their friend. Perhaps if I speak to them, it might help.’
He looks at me and gives a small laugh. ‘Ready to play Judas, is that it? Your friends might not thank you for it, Sylvie Mandon.’
‘Please just let me try,’ I say, through the roaring in my ears and the nausea in my throat.
He shrugs. ‘Why not?’ he says and, holding me in a tight grip, he marches me towards the door.
A respite
Outside the cellar, it’s a warren of dark passageways and closed doors. I’m trying to get my bearings, trying to work out in my head a sense of the layout of where we are. We’re underground, that’s for sure. There’s no light in the passageway, and it’s only lit by Radic’s Tilley lamp. I stumble after him, trying to work out just what sort of a place this might be. It’s surely bigger than what would be under a normal house, though maybe it’s just a big farmhouse, something like that. And so far I can’t see any stairs or anything that might lead to whatever’s up above. The stone walls are dampish, the whole place has a musty sort of feel, as though it’s been shut in on itself for a while. How would Radic have found this place? I knew nothing about his background or how he’d come to France, but wouldn’t you need at least to have scouted ahead? Was he renting it? Did he, or maybe his accomplice, even own it? Or had he found it by chance and broken in? It couldn’t be altogether abandoned, because there was all that wine in the cellar – you wouldn’t just leave it like that. But it must be out of the way, isolated. And not inhabited by anyone else, right now.
He’s unlocking a door. He stands to one side, to let me through. Inside, there’s a small room, with nothing but a chair, a table and a stretcher bed. A pile of clothes in a bag next to it. His, I think. Beyond the room is another door, also locked. He opens it, stands by silently to let me through.
This room’s bigger. Two stretcher beds. A table with a jug of water and two glasses. A bowl of fruit. A barred window, high above. It’s open. There’s air coming through. To one side, a door, ajar on what looks like a tiny bathroom. I only notice these things mechanically, my brain computing uselessly, because all my attention is on the two figures on one
of the beds, the little one sleeping in the shelter of his brother’s arms.
‘Daniel,’ I whisper. ‘Gabriel.’ I take a step towards them, but Radic stops me.
‘Your friend is just here to persuade you.’ His voice is cool, measured. ‘She’s sensible. You’d do well to listen to her.’
Daniel’s arm tightens around Gabriel. My heart constricts. There’s a small bruise on Daniel’s cheek, but otherwise he seems quite unharmed. His beautiful eyes look at me without a trace of emotion. Then his glance flicks back to Radic.
‘You are wasting your time,’ he says. Not another glance at me, not a sign of love, of relief, of anything. The back of my throat is thick, ice is gripping my spine. I don’t understand. Why is he looking at me like that? Surely he can’t still be angry with me over Mick?
‘Please, Daniel,’ I say, trying to stop my voice from breaking. ‘Please, you must listen to me. I only want to get you and Gabriel out of here. Safe. You only need to contact your uncle. That’s all.’
Daniel doesn’t look at me. He says to Radic, ‘You’ve made a serious error if you think bringing this girl here will change anything.’
‘Nevertheless,’ says Radic coolly, with a trace of amusement, ‘she is here to try.’
I feel sick. The cold, hard way in which Daniel had said this girlhits me like a punch in the stomach. I say, ‘Please, Mr Radic, will you leave us alone for a moment?’
He glances at me, raises his eyebrows. ‘Need a bit of lovers’ talk to persuade him, do we? Okay then. Just a little while, mind. And don’t try anything stupid. I’ll just be in the next room.’
I nod, dumbly. He leaves the room, but I feel his presence in the room beyond me, the door ajar. I whisper, ‘Daniel, please, you don’t understand–’
‘Oh, I understand all right,’ he says and now he is looking at me and his eyes are no longer expressionless but filled with contempt. ‘You’re here to soften me up – to trick me into trapping my uncle – luring him to his death. I should have known meeting you was no chance. It was planned all along.’
Bright Angel Page 17