It didn’t come.
After the runaway success of his first popular science book, Truth, Lies and Forensic Alibis, Rachel had been all for ‘diversifying their portfolio’– whatever that meant. He’d agreed to meet with a financial adviser. She arranged a meeting, but Fennimore was called away on a case at the last minute. After he cancelled a second time, Rachel went ahead and met— What the hell was the guy’s name?
It drove Rachel crazy that he could remember details of cases going back fifteen years, but forgot important stuff like birthdays and anniversaries. He had to admit, the financial adviser had done a good job – as Rachel kept reminding him over the year that followed. He’d even asked her once if she had crush on the guy. The way Rachel looked at him at that moment, he’d thought she would confront him outright about Kate Simms. But she didn’t – instead, she said he hadn’t a clue about investments, and without—
Dammit, he almost had the name that time.
Without whoeverhisnamewas, she’d said, their money would be sitting in a building society, devaluing month by month. It was true – Fennimore had never really been interested in money, nor adept at managing it.
After Rachel and Suzie disappeared, he fell apart, and the firm had organized him discreetly and without being patronizing. When the company merged with an international concern, he hardly noticed any changes – not even the name – just a grander logo and better paper quality on statements and letters. He simply glanced over what they sent and signed on the line helpfully Post-it-marked by Adèle Arnaud, the adviser’s secretary.
Why the hell could he remember the secretary’s name and not his adviser’s? Rachel was right – he should have paid more attention. He remembered her presenting him with a glossy brochure. That was back when Laurent was a small company – just five team members.
In a flash of almost eidetic recall, he saw ‘The Team’ photographed on the centre pages, standing in a V, suited and air-brushed, like reality TV stars. And he remembered their tagline: ‘Your wealth is our business.’ Which didn’t sound as reassuring now as it did back then.
So where was that brochure? When he’d moved from south-east England up to Aberdeen, he had shipped a load of paperwork to his office at the university – and from there to the new campus at Garthdee.
As he so often did in times of organizational chaos, he turned to Joan, the faculty office manager, but her direct line went straight to voicemail, and he remembered again that it was Saturday. He called her mobile number.
‘Professor, how are you?’ she said, her voice full of concern.
‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘You heard about Josh.’
She sighed.
Of course she had – this was Joan, after all.
‘Poor lad,’ she said.
Fennimore didn’t know what to say, so he shoved his emotion over Josh’s death into one of the neat compartments in his brain and said, ‘Look, Joan …’
‘Och – I know that tone,’ she said, sounding peevish, but he guessed that, like him, Joan was glad to have something to keep her busy.
‘I moved some boxes over to my new office,’ he said. ‘If I direct you, could you find something for me?’ The brochure would be in among his statements and letters, he explained.
She called him back fifty minutes later from his Garthdee office and grumbled about the mess he’d left the place in. She switched the phone to speaker so that she could set it down and he heard her muttering and tutting as she shifted boxes and rooted through the files.
Suddenly, she stopped.
‘Joan?’ he said.
‘I think I have it,’ she said.
‘Can you turn to the middle page – there should be a group photo. Can you read out the names?’
‘I can do better than that.’ A few moments later, she said, ‘Check your email.’
He put the phone down to look at his laptop. She had sent the middle-page photo image as an attachment.
With a sick thud of understanding, he recognized one of the faces. He scrambled for the image of Suzie with the man on the Paris street and resized it to fit alongside the brochure photo. A few years older, a little meatier around the jowls, but it was the same man. The man walking by Suzie’s side on a sunny street near the Seine and the man in the brochure were one and the same. He was the financial adviser Rachel had praised so highly. The caption gave his name: Charles Branly.
Fennimore dialled Laurent Wealth Management again, half-expecting to hear a recorded message, but the switchboard was manned. He announced himself and asked to speak to Mr Vincent. ‘He’s not answering his mobile,’ he said.
‘Oh, Mr Trimble instructed that I should put you straight through to him if you called,’ the telephonist said. ‘He’s one of the senior partners.’
Fennimore listened while Trimble talked emolliently about the business and the market, and how his investments were in safe hands.
‘And yet you’re in your office on a Saturday, when any self-respecting CEO should be on the golf course,’ Fennimore said.
‘Mr Fennimore, I assure you, we have everything in hand,’ Trimble said smoothly. ‘As soon as Mr Vincent has anything to tell you he’ll—’
‘That’s Professor Fennimore – and I don’t think I want to hear this from Vincent. I want to hear it from you.’
‘Forgive me – Professor,’ the man said. ‘What is it you would like to know?’
Fennimore’s real fear was that Branly had already disappeared, so he asked, ‘Why didn’t Charles Branly make the call to warn me about this … “anomaly” in my earnings? He’s my adviser.’
‘I’m sure he would intend to—’
Fennimore gripped the phone tighter. ‘You mean you haven’t spoken to him?’
‘It’s not quite that simple—’
‘What could be simpler than picking up the phone?’
‘You misunderstand me, Professor – I fully intend to—’
‘He intends, you intend – well, you know what they say about the pathway to hell, Mr Trimble.’
After a few moments of silence, the partner began again. ‘I can see that this may seem … alarming,’ he said. ‘But we are regulated by the Financial Conduct Authority – I want to assure you that your investments are safe.’
‘You’re citing the FCA?’ Fennimore said. ‘Just how bad is this?’
‘We would want to complete our audit before commenting on the situation.’
‘What “situation”?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t be more specific until the audit is complete.’
Fennimore sucked his teeth. ‘When I spoke with Mr Vincent an hour ago, he was convinced I was just splurging on too many luxuries – I’ll take a potted summary for now.’
Another silence. ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible.’
‘You don’t have a clue what Branly has been up to, do you?’ Fennimore said, forcing rationality and a semblance of cold control into his voice. ‘He’s been ripping clients off right under your nose and you were oblivious.’
‘Mr Branly is working from one of our satellite offices. He—’
‘Where?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Is it in Paris?’ Trimble’s silence told him he was right. ‘I want the address,’ Fennimore said.
‘I’m sorry, I can’t do that,’ Trimble said. ‘I can give you the number for the Paris office, of course, but they will only tell you what I’ve already said. It is vital that this is handled carefully, Professor. We are investigating and it would be unwise to do anything that might … fluster Mr Branly.’
‘If Branly has been doing what I think he has,’ Fennimore said, ‘your audit will already have spooked him.’
Trimble began to reassure Fennimore again about his investments.
‘I don’t give a crap about the money – you know who I am, Mr Trimble. You know my history.’
Trimble muttered some platitude. ‘But I don’t see how that impacts upon—’
‘I have evide
nce that your man in Paris has my daughter, Suzie.’ His voice broke on her name and he coughed to clear his throat. ‘So either you give me Branly’s address or I take this to the police.’
‘Then I believe I’ll wait for the police request,’ Trimble said stiffly.
‘Your choice,’ Fennimore said. ‘But if any harm comes to my daughter as a result of the delay, I will sue.’
‘Professor Fennimore, be reasonable—’
‘I’ll tell the press that you conspired with Branly.’
‘But that’s not true!’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Fennimore said, as cold and hard as stone. ‘Doesn’t matter if you countersue for libel either – Suzie Fennimore is international news – the damage to your reputation would finish the firm.’
Kate Simms’s phone buzzed in her pocket as she was finishing lunch at the Chaberts’. She had warned them she might have to take a call, and apologized, leaving the table and stepping out on to the elegant balcony of their art deco apartment in the 7th arrondissement.
‘Kate, listen,’ he said, ‘I think I’ve found her.’
Simms’s stomach flipped.
‘The photograph,’ he said. ‘I had it the whole time. I should have recognized him, Kate.’
‘Who are you talking about? What photo – the one of the girl in Paris?’ Simms heard traffic noise down the line, the agitated sound of car horns. Is he driving?
‘The brochure – Joan found it – I have it in front of me. It’s a match.’
‘Nick, what brochure – a match to what?’
‘You’re not listening,’ he said.
‘I’m trying,’ she said, ‘but you’re not making sense.’
She heard a juddering exhalation, then: ‘The man in the Paris photo.’ He took a breath. ‘I knew he was familiar – I just couldn’t place him. He’s a financial adviser – his photo was in an old brochure I had in my files.’
The blood roared in Simms’s ears and she had to grip the balcony rail to stay upright. ‘You have a name?’
‘Charles Branly.’
‘You think this Branly abducted Rachel and Suzie?’
‘I don’t know.’ Fennimore took a breath. ‘But, Kate – he’s got Suzie.’
‘Nick, it’s all right,’ she said, ‘we have a name – we’ll get him. We will. I’ll call my boss, ask him to alert London Met. We’ll—’
‘Branly’s not in the UK – he’s here in Paris,’ Fennimore said. ‘And his firm has begun auditing his accounts – it looks like he’s been embezzling clients’ funds. If Branly knows they’re on to him—’ He broke off.
Sweat broke out on Simms’s brow. ‘I’ll call Inspector Guerin,’ she said.
‘I’ve already done that,’ Fennimore said. ‘But he could make a break for it at any moment. Kate – we have to get Suzie out, now.’
She heard more car horns and a squeal of brakes. Oh, God. ‘You’re on your way to his apartment, aren’t you?’ She glanced over her shoulder at her daughter and her friends, chatting over coffee. ‘What’s the address?’
He gave her a street name in the 8th arrondissement. ‘It’s between the Champs-Élysées and the Trocadero,’ he said.
‘That’s only minutes from where I am. I’ll meet you there,’ she said. ‘We’ll find her, Nick. Just – please wait for the police.’
The traffic on the street below her seemed to still to a shush and Simms felt the damp grip of a cold sweat on her neck. She leaned on the balcony and took a couple of deep breaths before stepping back into the dining room.
Becky stood, clattering her coffee cup into the saucer. ‘Mum, are you okay? Has something happened?’
‘I’m – I’m fine,’ Simms said. She turned to Mrs Chabert. ‘But I have to go. I’m so sorry. It’s – an emergency.’
‘Can I drive you?’ Mrs Chabert asked. ‘You are quite pale, madame.’
‘No, it’s fine. Really. That was—’ She couldn’t say it was Fennimore and she couldn’t think of a reasonable lie.
‘Mum, you’re scaring me,’ Becky said. ‘Has Daddy had an accident? Is Timmy—’
‘No, darling – it’s nothing like that. I promise you, Dad and Timmy are fine.’
‘So why are you crying?’
‘Am I?’ Simms dashed a tear from her cheek and held her daughter’s face in her two hands. ‘I can’t say, poppet – not yet. But I promise I’ll explain everything soon.’
Seconds later she was on the street, hailing a taxi.
55
Paris, 8th Arrondissement, Saturday Afternoon
Simms’s taxi arrived outside Branly’s apartment building moments after Fennimore. He had parked his hire car at an angle to the kerb and was halfway to the entrance when she got out of the cab. She managed to catch him and steer him out of sight of the concierge’s desk.
‘I have to get in there, Kate,’ he said.
‘No,’ she said. ‘You have to wait. You saw the concierge; they probably have security staff, too. And Branly knows you. If he really has got Suzie, you’ll just place her in greater danger.’
‘Where are the police?’ Fennimore said. ‘What’s taking so long?’
‘My guess is they’ll be pulling together a team of specialists in kidnapping and hostage situations.’
His eyes widened. ‘No – we can’t let it get to a stand-off.’ He tried to shake free, but Simms held him.
‘It probably won’t come to that, but they have to be ready, Nick,’ she said. ‘It’s good strategy.’
His blue eyes searched her face. ‘You’re talking about strategy? This is Suzie, Kate.’
‘Even so.’ They had reached his car and she opened the passenger door. ‘Take a breath,’ she said. ‘Think this through.’
Early afternoon sunshine bathed the limestone frontages of the buildings along the street. Simms risked a quick glance up at the balconied windows of Branly’s place, but all of them on the upper level were closed, blindly reflecting the sunlight. When she fixed her gaze on Fennimore again, she saw that he had been watching her; perhaps he saw her in a different light at that moment, surveilling the building like a cop, because after another second’s hesitation, he got in the car.
From where they sat they had a clear view of the steps and the grand front doors of the building, as the entrance was kept free for drop-offs and pick-ups. The stone sets of the roadway before it gleamed like slate.
‘We can see everyone entering or leaving from here,’ she said. ‘The best thing we can do is wait for Guerin to arrive.’
A Daimler pulled out of a concealed exit twenty yards down the road and adrenaline flooded Simms’s system.
‘Shit – there’s a car park. Hide your face,’ she hissed, her pulse hammering in her throat.
Fennimore ducked his head and scratched his eyebrow as the car passed.
‘It’s not him,’ she said, her heart steadying to a mild jitter.
‘What if he’s already gone?’ Fennimore demanded. ‘The company’s auditor wasn’t exactly subtle when he called me.’
He had a point. But the sensible thing to do would be to sit tight, wait for Guerin.
‘What if we’re sitting here,’ he went on, his breathing irregular, ‘what if we’re waiting for the cops to get their arses in gear while he’s already heading for the border with Suzie?’
Simms had a flash of Suzie tied up in the boot of a car and suddenly she couldn’t take any more. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I need a name.’
‘What?’ Fennimore seemed stunned.
‘A name,’ she said. ‘Someone you dealt with at Branly’s firm – a receptionist, an assistant, a PA.’
‘Jeez, Kate – I couldn’t even remember Branly’s name till Joan looked it up for me. No, wait …’ He made an effort to focus. ‘There is a secretary. She signed letters on Branly’s behalf.’
‘The name, Nick.’
‘Arnaud,’ he said. ‘Adèle Arnaud.’
Simms let down her hair and ruffled it, checked her look in the rear-v
iew mirror, then reapplied her lipstick. She reached across him and pulled the car-hire documents out of the glove box.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Find out if he’s still in there.’
Sliding out of the driver’s seat, she fastened her suit jacket and unbuttoned her blouse to show some cleavage. She rushed, breathless and smiling, to the reception desk and asked for permission to go up to Monsieur Branly’s apartment. The concierge was dressed in a taupe grey uniform with gold buttons, the red Nehru collar of his jacket swallowed by the folds of his neck. He answered in French.
‘Monsieur Branly a demandé à ne pas être derangé.’
She recognized ne pas derangé – ‘do not disturb’.
‘I know, but—’ She waved the rental agreement. ‘Très urgent,’ she said, wishing she had made more effort in French classes. ‘Oof,’ she said, with a giddy giggle. ‘My French – sorry – um, désolée. I have urgent papers from Madame Arnaud. He has to sign them before he goes.’
The man was unmoved.
‘It’s très important,’ she said, opening her eyes wide. ‘Mr Branly will be so upset he forgot to do it.’
The concierge ran his tongue around the inside of his upper lip before saying, ‘Monsieur Branly has asked for a limousine fifteen minutes ago.’
The floor seemed to drop away from her and Simms took hold of the counter to steady herself. ‘He’s gone?’
‘Calmez-vous, madame,’ he said. Her stricken look must have melted the ice chip in his Parisian heart. ‘He demanded the chauffeur should drive into the car park.’ The concierge pointed downward with his index finger. ‘It can take ten minutes for the limousine to arrive. If you hurry …’ He raised one shoulder.
‘What’s the quickest way?’ she said.
‘L’ascenseur.’ He jerked his chin to a brass-doored elevator to his right. The indicator showed it was on the fourth floor.
Too slow, too slow. ‘Fire escape,’ she yelled. ‘Where is it?’
Truth Will Out Page 29