It might seem odd to you but I really did forget about our troubles as we sat on the sofa together, snuggled into each other, and shook with laughter over the crazy antics of Basil and Manuel and co. I think Remy was taken out of himself too. Unlike me – my mum is mad keen on John Cleese and has every show he's been in – he hadn't come across Fawlty Towers before but he soon got the gist. Time passed quickly and happily then and I was kind of sorry when Christine poked her head around the door and said, 'Dinner's ready'.
I have to say though that I was pretty hungry by now. I got stuck into the spaghetti with meat sauce she'd made, and salad, and then there was ice-cream and fruit to follow. I was kind of surprised such a simple meal had taken her so long to make but she told us she wasn't a natural cook and had to follow recipes for even the smallest thing. 'And to be like that in France, it's a bit of a handicap,' she said, smiling, as she swirled her spaghetti on her fork. 'Everyone thinks so much of food, Oscar included, and you're not allowed to say you really couldn't be bothered.'
I couldn't really understand that – I mean, I love food and I quite like cooking too. Still, I could see what she meant, about France. People really care about food. Anyone who doesn't is bound to be thought of as a weirdo.
While we ate, Christine asked me questions about Australia. She seemed interested. She said that once she'd thought of going to Australia, that it sounded like a great place. I told her it was, and as I talked about it, I felt this pang of homesickness, something I hadn't really felt since we'd arrived.
She didn't ask Remy about Canada. She'd probably heard enough about that from Oscar. Remy sat and listened to us in silence, picking at his food and sipping at his drink. He didn't seem hungry or thirsty. He looked tired. He wasn't the only one. Patou was already asleep in a laundry basket Christine had lined with a blanket.
So I wasn't surprised when, just after dessert, Remy got up and said he was very sorry, but he'd have to go to bed. Christine had already shown us the rooms where she said we could sleep – separate ones, of course – and so he kissed me goodnight, softly, on the lips, and Christine on the cheek. He said, 'I'll leave Patou here – I don't have the heart to wake her. Is that okay?'
'Of course,' said Christine.
He gave us both a ghost of a smile, and left the room. Moments later we heard his footsteps going wearily up the stairs.
Christine turned to me and said, 'He seems so nice. It is such a pity. Such a very great pity.'
'Yes,' I said, feeling a lump coming into my throat. 'It is just so terrible what's happened. So unfair. Why did that guy Laurie have to come to Bellerive and see Remy's mother?'
'Fate, I suppose,' she said. 'Bad luck.'
'Do you really think so? Do you really think he didn't know?'
'If he had, I am sure he would have got to her earlier,' she said gravely.
I shivered. 'I suppose that's right.' We were silent an instant, then I said, 'Do you think he really was a film producer, then?'
'I expect so,' she said. 'There's no reason Laurence Ferrier couldn't have grown up and become just about anything.'
I nodded. 'I suppose he might even have gone to the US, so Laurie wasn't lying when he said he was American.'
'Yep.' But her voice was a little vague. I could see she was losing interest in the conversation. I said in a rush, 'I really want to thank you for everything you've done for us today. It's been just great. You're just great. Not many adults would believe us, and trust us.'
'More fool them,' she said, turning her attention back to me. 'And you don't need to thank me. I know you're telling the truth. It's as simple as that.'
'Christine – do you think I should call Mum now?' I felt rather guilty about the fact that I'd hardly thought of her all afternoon. I should have called her earlier.
She shrugged. 'Up to you. You could leave it till the morning if you like, though. Or I could call for you.'
'Oh, no. It's okay. I'll do it. But tomorrow morning. Yes.'
She smiled at me. 'Fine. Now then, Miss, would you fancy a cup of coffee?'
She made us coffee, which we drank companionably, talking of this and that, and then I helped her stack the dishwasher. I looked in on the computer – still nothing – and then we went back to the living room and watched a little more Fawlty Towers. But I was suddenly feeling really, really tired too and so I made my excuses and went upstairs. As I went past Remy's door, I thought of knocking and going in to see him, but there was no sound coming from there. Remembering his weary face at dinnertime, I thought he must already be asleep. I wouldn't disturb him.
Christine had laid out a pretty cotton nightie for me to wear, which fitted pretty well. My bed was soft and comfortable, the pillow like a cloud, and I was fast asleep almost as soon as I clambered in between the sheets.
I woke very suddenly, from a really horrible nightmare. Not the usual one, of running through the forest. There was no movement in this one, no action. In the nightmare I was standing in a strange, empty place, under a heavy cloudy sky. I was looking up. I could not take my eyes from the sky. It was all grey, but in the corner, a light was growing. It was the strangest light ever. Yellow at first and then orange then red, getting redder and redder. Then I saw a shape, lifting up from the clouds: an upright figure red as blood, with a grinning, evil face, horns and a tail, holding a thing that looked like a fork, or a trident. In the dream, I knew it was the Devil, as he appeared in the tarot. The red figure of the Devil rose and rose till it got bigger and bigger and the whole place was filled with that unearthly, bloody light and my heart seemed to turn to stone inside of me and I...
That's when I woke. As soon as my heart stopped hammering and my eyes began to focus, I knew there was something wrong. Something not only wrong, but terrible. There was a strange red light in my room. For an instant, stunned by horror, I thought I must still be in the dream, or having one of those lucid ones where you know you're dreaming. I closed my eyes. I opened them. The red light still bathed the room.
I was so frightened I could hardly feel myself breathing. But I levered myself up, very quietly, and I looked at the windows and it was then I remembered I'd forgotten to close the shutters, in my tiredness. The light was coming from there. Through the windows. From outside.
I nearly just got back down in the bed and pulled the covers over my head. I would've thought that's what I might do, if I'd ever stopped to think what I might do if I was really, really scared. I've always thought I was a bit of a chicken. But until you've been in that place, you just don't know how you're going to react. And so, as if in a dream, I saw myself getting up, reaching for my jumper to pull over my nightie, and padding over in my bare feet to the window, prickles of cold all over my body.
I really thought I was going to see the Devil in the corner of the sky, grinning evilly down at me, waiting for my heart to turn to stone. But what I actually saw, once my eyes had accepted the fact that I wasn't in a dream and that I was really seeing what I was seeing, was that the red light came from the moon. The moon was full, enormous, low in the sky. And instead of being its usual silvery-white, it was a kind of red-gold. And in the light it cast the back garden looked unearthly and menacing.
I stood there for an instant, frozen to the spot. Then I told myself that though Mum and people who really believed in woo-woo stuff would say it was a blood moon, a portent of evil, it was all perfectly explainable, just a natural phenomenon, rare, sure, but still real, a bit of the sun's light refracted back over the curve of the earth or something so the moon took on that glow. But just as I managed to persuade my skittering heart to calm down and stop making a fuss, a fox barked, the weird sound piercing the stillness. All my hair stood up on end. I cried out. I couldn't help it. As I did so, I caught a flicker of movement in the very back of the back garden, and then, very briefly, the outline of a figure, wearing what looked like a hooded jacket. Someone was out there. Someone was watching the house!
I stood there for what seemed like an age but was
actually probably less than a second. Then I moved. I raced out of my room and down the corridor, shouting, yelling, screaming. As I reached the stairs, Christine burst out of her room, clutching her dressing-gown around her.
'What the hell's the matter!' she yelled. 'What on earth are you doing?'
'There's someone out there. It's him. I'm sure it's him.' I was babbling, stammering, sobbing.
'What are you talking about?' She didn't have her contact lenses on and her eyes didn't sparkle as much as usual.
'An intruder. Laurie. He's out there. He's tracked us down.'
'Don't be silly. How?'
'I saw him, I tell you! I'm sure it was him. He was in the back garden.'
She looked at my tear-streaked face, my wild eyes. 'Hang on. Let's have a look.'
'We should ring the police.'
'Not for a false alarm,' she said briskly. She disappeared into her room. Instants later she was out again, scrambled into jeans and a jumper, and casually carrying something that made my eyes open wide. A handgun.
She shrugged at the expression on my face. 'Don't worry. It's licensed. It was my father's. He taught me to shoot. If we really have an intruder here, then it's as well I've got it, don't you think?'
I swallowed. 'I–I suppose so.'
'But I couldn't see anyone out there, from my window,' she continued. 'Are you sure it wasn't the light, playing tricks with your eyes?'
I shook my head.
'Okay. Stay here. Lock yourself in your room, if you like. I'll go and check. Okay?'
'But you –?'
'Don't worry about me. I can look after myself.' She flashed me a smile, and was gone.
It was only as she vanished down the stairs that the obvious thing came to my head. Why hadn't Remy come out of his room? I'd made a big enough commotion. But he hadn't come out. Terror seized me by the throat. I ran to his door, hammered on it. 'Remy! Remy!' No answer. I tried the door. It wasn't locked. I turned the handle and burst into the room.
The windows were wide open. The room was full of red light. The bedclothes were scattered all over the floor. And Remy was gone.
Wolf hunt
For a heartbeat, I just stood there, stunned. Then my brain started moving again and I ran to the window. I looked out gingerly, dreading that I'd see Remy's body lying on the gravel. But there was nobody. And nothing. No blood. No sign of a struggle. No sign that anything had happened to him, except for those messy bedclothes. But that could have been him, throwing them off.
Suppose he'd gone himself, of his own free will, for some urgent reason? But then he'd have left word for me, surely. I scoured that room, looking on the table, in the drawers, under the bedclothes, everywhere, for a note, but found nothing. Not a clue.
He wouldn't just go and leave me alone, would he? No. I couldn't believe that. And anyway, why would he go? What could possibly be so urgent that he'd just up and leave and ... Patou! He wouldn't have gone without Patou. I raced downstairs and into the living room where I'd last seen the dog, lying on her basket. She wasn't there. I called, 'Patou! Patou!' But she didn't answer. Of course she didn't answer. She was gone, like him.
That meant he must have gone of his own free will, surely. Because if it had been the intruder – Laurie – whoever I'd caught a glimpse of, in the garden, then he'd not have known Patou was there. He'd not have come in here at all.
I looked around the room. Everything was as still as it had been when I went up to bed, except for the fact that the laptop was lying on the coffee table. Someone must have brought it in from the study. It had its lid down. I opened it. A blue light blinked. The computer was still on, hibernating. I touched the keyboard. Up sprang a website. One I recognised. The Casebook of Dreaming Holmes.
The door banged. An instant later, there were Christine's footsteps, heading for the stairs. Forgetting all about the computer, I dashed out into the corridor. 'Christine! Remy's gone!'
She stopped dead. 'What?'
'He's not in his room. I can't find him. Patou's gone too.'
'But why?'
'I don't know. I thought he'd have left me a note.'
'And he didn't?'
'No.' I suddenly remembered what she'd gone out for. 'Did you find him? The man I saw, I mean.'
'No. But I did find this.' She pulled something out of her coat. A torn piece of paper. 'He must have dropped it. He must have been in a hurry. It got trampled in the mud. But look at it. What do you think it is?'
I looked at it. My heart raced. My skin crawled. I said, weakly, 'It's a drawing. A sketch of a woman's head. It's had a corner torn off.' My legs wobbled. I'd seen that style before, that bold hand. In fact I'd seen several of these drawings, lying defaced and scattered around a dead woman's cottage ...
'Yes, but do you see who it is? It's pretty unmistakeable, don't you think?'
I nodded, unable to trust my voice.
'Why the hell would anyone carry around a sketch of Valerie Gomert?' said Christine, blankly. 'Tell me that, Fleur.'
I stared at the sketch, thinking of the missing corner lying in the evidence box at the Avallon police station. I thought of how wrong we'd been in our assumptions. I said, 'She wouldn't have had time, poor thing. Of course she wouldn't. How could we be so stupid?'
Christine stared at me. 'What are you talking about? What the hell is this picture?'
'Valerie was making a tarot,' I said. 'The Bellerive Tarot. Each of the symbols was portrayed by someone she knew. Someone from Bellerive. We thought – the police thought that the missing card would carry a portrait of her murderer. Someone she knew. We thought that's why he might have taken it. But maybe she didn't have time. I mean –' Christine still looked blank. 'If she'd only just clapped eyes on him that evening, she might not have known, for sure. He'd have changed, from way back when. She wouldn't have had time to draw a picture of Laurie as Death or the Hanged Man. No, this one I bet she'd drawn a while back – she'd drawn herself as Death or whatever – poor woman.'
Christine looked puzzled, but I didn't feel like explaining the tarot to her, not right at this moment. I said, 'I suppose her murderer must simply have taken it as a trophy.' I shivered. 'Or something like that. Maybe that's what that Hotel du Lys paper was about too. It was a kind of trophy. Reminding him of things. Raymond must have found it. So that means – that means he must have met Laurie at least once before.'
'Oscar didn't say,' said Christine, uncertainly. 'But then I suppose I never asked. It's certainly possible. But why would Hotel du Lys mean anything to Monsieur Dulac?'
'He was a good friend of Valerie's. Maybe she told him. Or maybe he found out, somehow. But he wasn't sure. He wanted it checked out, so he employed –'
'The PI,' Christine nodded. 'It's possible. We could hunt down the –'
I actually felt the jolt in my mind. I said, 'Oh my God, that's what he's doing.'
'What?'
'Hunting him down. Remy –'
She looked utterly confused. 'What are you talking about, Fleur? I don't understand a word. Are you saying Remy's being hunted by Laurie? But I thought you said Patou was gone too. Wouldn't –'
'No. No. Remy is hunting Laurie. He saw him tonight. Outside. He's gone to hunt him down. With Patou.' My throat felt like it would close up. 'He's going to kill him because of what happened to his mother. He used to have a bow and arrow, but not with him. Do you have any other weapons, I mean, other than that gun?'
Her eyebrows raised. 'That's crazy, Fleur. You surely can't be suggesting ...'
'Please. Do you?'
'I do have a crossbow,' she said reluctantly. 'Well, it's not mine, actually. It's Oscar's. He used to belong to an archery club in Canada. Target practice. He asked me to keep it here because Raymond didn't want it in the house. I don't think he's used it in ages. I don't think there's even any bolts left with it.'
'Please. Where is it?'
'For God's sake, Fleur. Don't be –'
'Please.'
'Cupboard under the sta
irs,' she said at last. 'But how would he know that?'
I didn't listen. I ran to the cupboard she'd pointed out, and pulled open the door. There was a light to one side. I switched it on, and looked inside.
'What a mess,' said Christine, over my shoulder. 'It wasn't as messy as this before. Hang on. Don't go in. Let me have a look.' She went in, and began pulling aside the boxes and piles of old blankets and various odds and sods that littered the floor of the cupboard. After a moment, she straightened. She looked at me. Her voice sounded puzzled. 'It doesn't seem to be here.'
I'd been expecting it, ever since she'd mentioned the crossbow. But it was still a shock. I said, 'Oh God, Christine, we've got to find him! He thinks he's going to kill Laurie, in revenge for his mother.'
'I think you're right,' she said, briskly. 'This Laurie guy's already killed three people. One more won't matter to him one bit.'
'But where do we start? Where would he have gone? What are we going to ...'
'I'd start with the woods,' she said, calmly. 'You saw that guy out the back. And Remy's room is at the back too. Obvious thing is, the guy came in through the woods. But not on foot. He'd have a car somewhere. He'll be headed back to it, I'd say. There's a trail, just a few metres away from my house. We'll go there. We'll take the car. That'll be quicker. Okay?' She reached out to me and laid a hand on my arm. 'Don't worry. It will be all right. Remy won't be caught out so easily by that Laurie. We'll find him. Don't you fret.'
I nodded, feeling as though a burning weight had lodged in my chest. I didn't want to say what was really in my heart – the horrible feeling that I'd never see Remy alive again. To say it might make it come true so I pretended that I was reassured, and tried to smile, and followed her meekly outside to the car, still in my nightie and jumper but with dirty old sneakers from the stairs cupboard on my feet. I must have looked a sight. But that was the last thing on my mind, I can tell you. All I could think of was Remy, imagining he could really stalk a three-times murderer through the dark woods. As if he was a hunter from one of those medieval stories he loved, on the track of a particularly cunning and dangerous wolf...
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