I was exercising her inside the large barn, leading her on a rein at a slow pace to ease her back into action and watching how much weight she could place on her right foreleg, when I heard the engine. Cosette whickered a greeting and pricked her snowy ears. She knew the sound as well as I did. Papa’s truck.
*
I gave him fifteen minutes. That was all.
Enough time to get himself inside the house on his crutches. I didn’t watch. Enough time to settle himself. Then I kissed Cosette’s cheek and crossed the yard to the house.
‘Hello, André. How did it go at the hospital?’
‘All good, thanks.’
He didn’t look good. He looked as if the doctors had drained the blood out of him. Pale, white-lipped, and a sheen on his skin that sent a chill through me. He was stretched out on his bed and I wanted to straighten out his legs for him but knew he would hate it. Every time I looked at his crooked legs, every single time, I saw the van slamming into us in Paris. I saw strings of blood.
But the moment I walked into the room, his eyes brightened, gleaming with expectation. I was his eyes and ears. I was his legs.
‘What did the doctors say?’ I asked, taking up my usual place on the chair. The very fact that I now had a usual place in his room made me smile.
‘To hell with the x-rays.’ He saw my expression and added, ‘Okay, they were fine. No change.’
‘Will they operate again?’
He mumbled something.
‘Will they, André?’
‘Maybe.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘You don’t give up, do you?’
‘No. I learned from a master.’
He laughed. I’d made him laugh.
‘So, will they?’ I asked again.
‘They want to. They think they can improve my mobility.’
‘That is wonderful news, André. Why don’t you agree to it straight away?’
He gave me a long look from his perceptive amber eyes and we both knew why. If he underwent the operation he’d be out of action for weeks.
‘André, have the operation,’ I urged quietly. ‘I’ll do your running for you.’
He grinned at me. ‘Run and get me a glass of something, will you?’
‘Don’t change the subject.’
‘Please. Then tell me your day.’
‘On condition.’
‘On condition of what?’
‘You have the operation.’
He laughed again, flashing his lion teeth at me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
‘Who? Who?’
I listened to André murmuring that one word over and over.
‘Who leaked this material from Dumoulin Air Base?’
He was holding my Minox magnifying viewfinder close to his eye and hovering over the strip of tiny negative film I’d developed.
‘What if,’ I said when he’d studied every frame in detail, ‘what if it was Mickey?’
‘Mickey the murdered airman? You mean he might be the leak?’
‘It’s possible, isn’t it? And it would explain why someone might have wanted him dead. And why he came into town.’
‘What was his work in the air force?’
‘A mechanic. His full name was Michael Ashton. Senior Master Sergeant Michael Ashton. I admit I don’t know how he’d have got hold of the detailed drawing of the airfield.’
André was intense now. Focused on work in a way I hadn’t seen before, but finally he placed the film and viewfinder down on the bedside table, picked up his wine glass and raised it to me.
‘You did well, Eloïse.’
How many times had I wanted to hear those words, but now that he said them, I felt no warm glow, no sense of success. I hadn’t done well. Mickey had died. I wanted to believe he was the Intelligence leak because it gave a reason for his murder. Clanging like a death-knell at the back of my mind was the fear that he’d died because he’d been with me at the dance last night. Just as André almost died when he was with me in Paris.
I’d sat in the bedside chair and described to him my day in Serriac. Kept it brief, and emotionless, and at the end I’d endured his scrutiny without a flicker.
‘Is that all of it?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Isn’t that enough for one day?’
He nodded. I don’t know whether he believed me. I don’t know whether he knew I was lying. I had made no mention of my talk in the church with Father Jerome. That was André’s business, not mine, if he chose to seek strength from God on a Sunday. But neither had I mentioned the old newspaper cutting of Papa. I’m not sure why. In some way I didn’t totally understand, I felt it was private business between Papa and me, but I offered something else to keep André’s nose from sniffing out my lie.
‘I’ve discovered that Gilles Bertin is Mayor Durand’s cousin.’
He made no sound. But he threw back the rest of his wine and a streak of crimson flared on his cheek. ‘Is that a fact? You surprise me.’
‘It could be that Mayor Durand is being fed information by someone from the air base which he passes on to his cousin – who just happens to be an MGB agent – for a big fat fee.’
Again no sound from André.
I pressed on. ‘Which explains the nice little mountain of American dollars in his secret drawer.’
Very slowly my brother nodded.
‘André, we have to report this to the police.’
‘What?’ He stared at me as if I had suggested drowning Juno, my father’s dog.
‘We cannot allow a traitor to France to continue as Mayor of Serriac. We must inform Léon Roussel at once.’
He reached over and took my hand in his. ‘No.’
‘Yes, André. We can’t turn a blind eye to—’
He squeezed my hand. ‘Listen to me, Eloïse, listen hard. My network is acutely aware that there is an agent inside the air base, feeding information to the MGB. Some of it is critical Intelligence information like the technical details of the Nike Ajax missile system which they are thinking of installing at Dumoulin. It’s the world’s first surface-to-air missile. An invention of technical genius. Designed to attack subsonic aircraft at high altitude and intended to defend key strategic points against Soviet bombers.’
‘How do you know all this?’
He sighed, impatient. ‘It’s my job to know all this. The point is that someone has been leaking top-secret information from that air base for some time. It’s why I used to come back here from Paris every weekend. To dig around. To listen to rumours. To mix with the American airmen in the bars and cafés on a Saturday night. You and I have to find out who that leak is.’
‘Not Mickey. Surely not Mickey. He was too . . .’
‘Ordinary?’
I nodded.
André released my hand. ‘I’ve told you before, Eloïse. In this business you must think the impossible.’
*
I heard the sound of footsteps crossing the yard. Approaching through the semi-darkness. It was twilight, the sky a peony-pink in the west, wisps of chalky mist creeping into corners. The cicadas were in full voice and an owl was calling from the tree under which Goliath lay, a soft ghostly echo of his voice.
I was jumpy. For good reason. A man next to me got knifed today. I was in the barn now grooming Cosette with sweeping strokes along the length of her withers and back, and over the powerful white curve of her well-muscled flank. I rested my forehead against her stocky neck and inhaled the strong sweet scent of her hide. She was a horse who loved to be groomed and lifted her leg obligingly, huffing contentedly. I was checking her wound and looking for any cuts or nicks on her knees and pasterns when I caught the sound of boots on the cobbles. But it was a footfall I knew well.
‘Eloïse!’
‘Papa?’
‘Telephone call for you.’
I put down my brush, gentled Cosette’s soft muzzle and raced indoors.
‘Hello?’ I could feel a pulse ticking at my throat.
/> ‘Eloïse? It’s Major Joel Dirke here. You left a message for me to call.’
‘Thank you for calling back, Major. Sorry to disturb your Sunday evening.’
‘Not at all. What can I do for you? Things are a bit crazy round here at the moment because of . . .’ He paused awkwardly. ‘I don’t know if you’ve heard.’
‘About Mickey Ashton.’ It hurt to say his name. ‘Yes, I was in Serriac today.’
‘Really? Maybe you’re one of the people we should be interviewing.’
A ripple of alarm shot through me. ‘I have already been interviewed by the police and made a statement.’
‘Good. Thank you. We’ll be taking over the investigation and going through them all.’ Another pause. I didn’t jump into it. ‘I’m sorry,’ he continued with his soft Southern voice, ‘it must have been . . . harrowing.’
‘Harrowing. Yes, you’ve found exactly the right word.’ I placed a hand hard on my throat to stop the pulse. ‘But that’s not why I rang you. I was feeding my horse earlier and remembered what you said about missing the horses on your father’s ranch.’ I ran my tongue over my dry teeth. ‘I wondered whether you’d like to come over and go for a horse-ride some time. It’s beautiful scenery round here.’
‘I’d love to, thank you. That would be mighty fine.’
‘Good.’
‘When were you thinking of?’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘I’m on duty tomorrow, I’m sorry. The day after? I have the afternoon off.’
‘That suits me. About three o’clock when it won’t be so hot?’
‘Perfect. Thanks for the invitation. I look forward to it.’
‘See you then.’
I put down the phone, the black Bakelite covered in my sweat. Horses are better than people. They don’t lie. They don’t pretend. They just kick you in the teeth if they don’t like you.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
LÉON ROUSSEL
The American captain left. At last. At long bloody last.
Léon immediately dumped the mountain of Lucky Strike butts spilling out of his ashtray into the trash and yelled to Feroulet in the outer office for coffee. He threw himself back into his desk chair, fighting the urge to grab a paintbrush and daub a sign on the outside of his door: AMERICANS ENTER HERE AT THEIR PERIL.
Maybe not. Given that one just got murdered in his town.
But Captain Doug Prendergast from the 1606th Air Group of the USAF was not the easiest of investigators to work with. Léon set about pile-driving his way through more of the hundreds of witness statements stacked in front of him. Despite the late hour – 21:40 – he still felt the pulse of raw energy through his veins.
He took it personally. This murder. It was his job to protect the inhabitants of Serriac from any marauding criminals, a job he loved with a passion and which he viewed as a trust. Even if it only meant digging into who had been stealing the fruit from Madame Daudier’s orchard of apricot trees or smacking a few heads together in a dispute over tractors. Settling a drunken brawl or tracking down a burglar. These were his people and he had failed them today. When he thought about how easily that knife could have slid between Eloïse Caussard’s slender ribs a shudder wracked him.
Adjutant Feroulet hurried in with coffee, black and bitter as the murderer’s heart. The way Léon liked it.
‘Go,’ Léon said, and waved a dismissive hand. ‘Get your jacket and go home. It’s been a long day.’
‘Sir, I can check through more of the statements before I leave.’
‘Go home. You have a new baby. Get back there before your pretty wife runs off with her lover.’
Feroulet was young and his wife was very beautiful. For five seconds he looked alarmed, but then laughed and shook his head. ‘She likes my uniform.’
‘And your gun, no doubt.’
His coffee-carrier was a good officer but still green enough to flush at the tease. He muttered a quick ‘Goodnight, sir,’ and shot out of the door. For the next hour Léon buried himself in paperwork until he suddenly picked up yet again Eloïse Caussade’s statement. He read it through three times, picturing her saying the words, and then reached for his car keys.
*
There were still lights on downstairs in the Mas Caussade. That didn’t surprise him. What did surprise him was the lone figure that his Citroën’s headlights picked out in the yard. Even in the darkness, he knew it was Eloïse.
He recognised her slight figure in the way she cocked her head like a cat listening intently. She had clambered up on top of an empty flatbed trailer and seemed to be sitting cross-legged, staring out towards the marshes. As his car approached, exposing her in its yellow beam, she jumped to her feet and looked ready to flee. But at the last moment she changed her mind and raised a hand in greeting. Léon felt a dull ache that made him want to wrap his arms around her and run for the hills. The Caussade men had always carved out a rough path for Eloïse Caussade.
When he turned off the engine, darkness came down like a blackout curtain and he reached into his glove compartment for a torch. By the time he climbed out of the car she was at his side.
‘Léon, what are you doing here?’ she asked. ‘Is something wrong?’
He flicked on his torch, directing it on to the cobbles. Her dark hair was tied back off her face and the light skidded along her scar, shiny as a cat’s eyes.
‘I came to make sure you’re okay. Today was tough on you and I was worried. I realise it’s late.’
‘You still working?’
‘I was, but I needed a drive to clear the fog from my mind.’
‘Thank you, Léon.’
He didn’t want thanks.
‘Shouldn’t you be safe indoors?’
‘I’m thinking about Mickey, the airman. Does his family know?’
‘Yes. They’ve been informed.’
She slid her arm through his, her shoulder brushing close, and led him over to the flatbed. She swung up on to it with ease, and he joined her. They sat down side by side, her knees tucked under her chin, and for some time they sat in silence, listening to the chirrups and rustles of the night, feeling the flutter of moths’ wings and a breeze fingering their skin.
‘How are you?’ he asked when their heartbeats were quiet. The torch was switched off.
She laughed softly. ‘Probably not as bad as you.’ For no more than a breath or two she dropped her cheek on his shoulder. ‘Now, Léon, tell me why you’re really here. I’m certain you’ve had a terrible time in town, clearing up the mess and keeping a polite tongue in your head for the American investigator. Fending off irate residents and interviewing angry demonstrators must have taken its toll.’
‘It’s my job, Eloïse. That’s what I’m paid to do.’
‘I know. But I can see it’s much more than a job to you.’ He felt her lean close, sensed her warm lips barely brush his cheek, her breath silky on his neck, sending its nerves into a frenzy. ‘So why have you dropped whatever it was you were doing to come out and sit on a trailer on a starless night with me?’ Her lips touched his ear, then vanished.
She was right, of course. She could read him so well even in the dark. He edged his shoulder away from hers, because if he didn’t he would stay sitting like that all night and never tell her.
‘I interviewed Isaac.’
Her face snapped round to face him, a paler oval of darkness. ‘What did he say?’
‘The usual. The end of the world is nigh and only the Communist Party can save it. The American capitalist system is designed by the rich for the rich. You know the party line.’
He felt rather than saw her nod. ‘Come on, Léon, let me hear whatever it is you’ve come to tell me. I promise I won’t swoon or bite your head off.’
‘He tells me there are Intelligence leaks coming from the air base.’
She didn’t react.
‘And that there are rumours flying around.’
‘What kind of rumours?’
‘The kind y
our MGB friend might be here for.’
‘He’s not my friend.’
Léon waited for her feathers to settle. ‘Rumours that are coming from a leak at the Dumoulin base and are getting the Communist devotees all hot under the collar.’
She smacked his knee. ‘Tell me.’
‘That the American aircraft industry is developing a nuclear plane. Not one that just carries nuclear attack weaponry. One that is powered by nuclear energy. One that Isaac claims is being rushed through its top-secret prototype stage in America far too quickly because they want to bring it to Europe. To our base here at Dumoulin. And if one ever crashes on landing or is shot down, God help us all.’
She gave a low whistle that seemed to attract some wild creature because an instant bark responded from the darkness. She slapped away a mosquito with more vehemence than necessary.
‘So that’s why he’s here,’ she muttered under her breath.
‘Isaac?’
‘No. My MGB Soviet agent friend.’
‘Mickey Ashton could have been his contact.’ Her intake of breath was so soft he almost missed it. ‘But we have no proof that he was the leak.’
‘None at all. And I didn’t spot Gilles Bertin in Serriac today. Oh, Léon, so many secrets. So many things I wish I could tell you.’
‘Then do so.’
‘I can’t.’
Fear for her uncurled in Léon’s guts. ‘That’s the trouble with espionage, Eloïse. It builds barriers around you, it cages you alone with only your secrets for company. Is that what you want?’
Hell, he didn’t want to hurt her. But neither did he want her locked in a cage of André’s making. She was too wild for that. Yet she had spent her life helping her brother to knock in the bars that surrounded her. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, aware of each slender bone of her, of the night sounds shuffling closer, snuffling and whispering.
She raised a hand to his face, her fingertips brushing, touching, exploring each of his features in the darkness and lingering on his lips. He felt desire for her burn through him as he kissed her soft mouth, heard her whispered moan. She tasted of salt marshes and raw nerves and a hunger so strong it stopped his heartbeat.
The Guardian of Lies Page 16