by Matt Drabble
Determined to always be a self-sufficient unit, to make sure that she never had to rely on anyone else, and never make the mistake of fully trusting anyone else, she spent her young adult life employing the finest instructors to teach her the mastery of combat. She studied every martial art that she could find; she took gun training, weapons training, armed and unarmed combat instruction.
Although never knowing just what was waiting for her, Charlotte’s body was a temple of fitness and discipline, her mind always sharp and ready. As time passed and nothing happened, she began to feel foolish, as though her life was a sham and an insult to her parent’s memory. Perhaps the terrible details of that night had been misplaced in a child’s imagination. She began to doubt her own version of events, but she was never able to truly vanquish them. She needed to hate Hugo Montague, she needed to blame him, and shower him with responsibility, as the alternative was far too incomprehensible. Her father must have been possessed when he brutally strangled her mother, otherwise it was his own hands, and that she could not believe.
She had tried on more occasions that she could count to discover the secrets and history of The Montague Portrait. But she soon found that real life was not like the movies; there was no listing in the phonebook for haunted painting investigators. The legitimate history of the painting was spotty at best. It was created in 1923 by an artist called Benedict Worthington, who later committed suicide in mysterious circumstances. There was no paper trail of provenance to follow, and no records that could be easily found. She was stuck, knowing that she wanted to dig, but wary of stirring up old ghosts that were lying dormant.
Having stayed in limbo for several years, her finances were strong; the money pot sprouted and flowered from the seed of the insurance money. She had little imagination of how to spend a fortune; she merely existed as she waited, half hoping that nothing would happen and half hoping that it would. Just when she had determined that her life to date had been wasted, Vargas entered stage left.
The memory of the evening he cornered her as she was returning to her parked car after a particularly arduous gym session still burned and shamed her. He was a tall man who oozed a natural power and overwhelming charisma. He had invaded her personal space as he towered over her and sapped her will. In spite of all her training and preparations, she wilted before him like a flower before the sun.
‘Ms Goode,’ he had rumbled in a deep dark baritone.
‘Yes?’ she whispered with a dry throat and a fluttering belly.
‘I believe, my dear that you have something that belongs to me.’
She had stared at him in fear, hating the sensation but helpless against it.
‘Where is the Montague Portrait, Charlotte?’ he asked with a shark’s teeth smile.
‘It … it burned,’ she stammered.
‘Oh, I don’t think so, my dear. Not even close and I think that we both know that.’
She had stared at him, her mind racing with an equal mixture of doubt and hope.
Just then the car park was lit by the lights of a minibus full of drunken stag night enthusiasts. The shadows were shortened and Vargas was momentarily exposed to the light. As he turned away from his unwelcomed illumination, there was a single brief second when Charlotte witnessed either a trick of the light or of her eyes.
For a single frozen moment she saw that Vargas had cast no shadow upon the concrete.
‘If you’re not willing to help, Ms Goode,’ he said, speaking as he faded back into the night, ‘then I guess we’ll have to do this in the most tedious of ways.’
She was contacted the very next morning by the accountancy firm that handled her finances, to inform her that a court judgement had frozen her primary account. The insurance company that paid out on the Montague Portrait was attempting to reclaim the money. There was to be an investigation into her family’s claim and the possible fraudulent actions of her parents. The day after that, she began to follow Vargas. If he was searching for the painting, then he was the man to follow.
That was until he handed the baton to Parker.
As she drove, she glanced at Parker. She was still desperately trying to get a handle on the man. He could be infuriating to the point of madness, but she was not unaware that their lives had run to parallel lines.
She was as ill equipped as he apparently was, at daily dealings with other human beings. Any time that either of them reached out a trembling olive branch, the other found a way to burn it. But even she had to admit that he had his uses. Back at the B&B she had lost all control, but he was strong and assured. Despite his dishevelled appearance he exuded confidence. He picked up on the men sitting across from them at breakfast, and without his instincts they would most likely have been killed or taken, depending on the strangers’ preference. She did not know if they were sent by Vargas or someone else, but before she acted she had seen in their eyes a coldness, and the flash of a silver gun drawn. If Parker’s instincts were that sharp, perhaps after all there was something to be said for partners.
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Travis finished studying the information Chris had sent him. He silently thanked Chris for sending it “guaranteed next day delivery”, as otherwise he would have left the B&B before it arrived and the police would have been left with Charlotte’s name and details and a link to him through Chris.
He should be contacting the nearest police station to hand himself in and attempt to explain the events over breakfast, but somehow he just couldn’t do it. It was a futile and unrealistic gesture, but for Amy he had to keep going. If there was only the slightest chance that he could regain her favour, then he had to try. For her, he had to try.
The information he had requested was on two names: Charlotte, and the name given to him by Delaney, the delusional ex gallery security guard at the retirement home: Pierce Barnes.
His system was still in shock over Charlotte’s decisive and fatal actions at the B&B. He had instinctively known that the two men sitting across from them over breakfast were a threat, but not how much of one until he saw the guns. Charlotte acted in a flash and might possibly have saved his life, but he honestly did not know whether to feel comforted or terrified of her performance.
The file on her was one that he fully intended to keep to himself; it didn’t take a genius to figure out that she would not be pleased if she found out that he had been looking into her background. Unfortunately there didn’t seem much that Chris was able to uncover. The photograph in the parcel confirmed that she was indeed Charlotte Goode. Her parents had both died when she was eight years old; her father strangled her mother and then burned to death in a fire that destroyed their home, leaving Charlotte as the sole survivor. An insurance policy was cashed in and the money held in a trust in her name until she came of age. It was also a matter of public record that the insurance company was currently pursuing legal action in an attempt to reclaim over a million pounds. There was an investigation into whether or not the Montague Portrait was in fact destroyed that night as claimed.
Quite why she was currently sitting next to him on the run from a crime scene instead of contesting the matter in court was puzzling, to say the least. If she truly believed that the painting was cursed, then she could be more dangerous than he had first feared. The other background file in the parcel was concerning one Pierce Barnes – the name Delaney gave him, and his only current lead. Pierce Barnes was supposed to be about one hundred and seven years old and his background was spotty at best. But thankfully Chris had been able to provide him with a last known address of sorts.
Barnes had lived in a small village in the south of France, called Lagrasse, at least until the last year or so. Travis hoped his luck would hold and that he would be able to find the man, or at least a trace of him there.
‘So where are we going?’ Charlotte asked in a rapidly becoming familiar stroppy tone.
‘How’s your French?’ Travis said.`
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
FOREIGN SOIL, FAMILIAR TALE
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Charlotte watched with growing admiration as Travis slowly emerged out of his self-imposed exile from the world around him, to the point where he was now leading their uneasy union. On the ferry ride over, he devoured a guide book on Lagrasse. The sea was choppy and her stomach heaved nauseatingly in rebellion at the rising and sinking of the waves. Preparing and planning with care he had taken charge of the peacetime operation with ease. While she, for the conventions of subtlety, would probably have blundered ahead with disdain, he was reading up on the area, and in some of the ferry shops he had been busy buying weird supplies. He finally emerged from one of the ferry bathrooms, showered, shaved, changed, and looking ready. She still wasn’t quite sure just what they needed to be ready for, but he looked ready for it.
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Travis felt almost alive again; the face that stared back at him as he wiped the steam away from the shower room mirror looked vaguely familiar. His face was shaved, his hair washed and combed, his body smelled of a musky shower gel and his eyes were alive with anticipation. He couldn’t help feeling an odd sense of adultery, not in any conventional sense of a man being unfaithful to his wife; it was more like he was betraying his grief just by starting to live again.
Shaking the darkness from his thoughts he started moving forward. He bought a smartish but inexpensive suit from one of the clothing stores on board. His cash was all but spent and he had to use his last credit card that had some space on it, but he was reasonably certain that no-one was looking for Travis Parker yet. He bought a few supplies from a stationery store, including a large clipboard, paper pads, and a brown leather-effect briefcase. He bribed a supermarket manager to sell him his glasses as he told him that he had been looking for frames like his for years. Armed and dressed, he looked the epitome of a bureaucrat; it was the desired effect.
Once the ferry docked he directed Charlotte to drive the stolen car, although to be honest it was more of a request than a direction. He was finding that they had at last struck a balance; it wasn’t the easiest of alliances, but it was a functioning one at least.
As she drove he read up on the village of Lagrasse from a guide book he had picked up on the ferry. Apparently it was surrounded by hills and slopes covered with bright and beautiful Mediterranean vegetation. A large monastery from the 8th century, still in excellent condition, was a big tourist attraction. There were quaint, narrow cobbled streets and many of the buildings were of historical value and interest. The photos all looked quite serene and beautiful and Travis felt that the town would actually be a nice place to holiday. The drive through the sloping hills and countryside would be a pleasant one and the weather seemed warm and would get warmer as they drove south. All in all it could be a pleasant journey.
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The large men cowered beneath the storm that raged in his eyes. Dr Gabriel Lochay flung the telephone hard against the wall where it shattered instantly, the black plastic spinning off in as many directions as his mind currently was.
‘Dead?’ he whispered to himself. ‘How is that even possible?’ he asked aloud to the gathered group.
His office was stocked with four members of his inner circle, trusted men and women with strong wills and stronger stomachs, who had proven themselves over time capable of carrying out his orders. The two men he had sent after his intruders had also been such men, and apparently they were now dead.
His intelligence had shown little in the way of threat from Mr Parker and Ms Goode. Parker used to be an insurance investigator who had slipped from sight over the last two years, a man who had drowned under the weight of grief. Ms Goode on the other hand may well be the daughter of the last two known unfortunate possessors of the Montague Portrait, but on the surface she appeared to be of no concern. His provider of such information had informed him that she was not anything other than a Nancy Drew wannabe, a lost soul looking for answers over the death of her parents. If it had taken her this long to get close to the trail, then how much of a threat could she really be? But after the B&B episode, they both had to be taken seriously. It was a mess, and Lord, did he ever hate messes.
‘Find them!’ he yelled to his nervous audience. ‘Take enough manpower, sorry,’ he said, glancing at the woman present, ‘peoplepower, and leave nothing to chance. We are much too far down the line now to be leaving loose ends. No questioning, no tying people up in James Bond villain style dungeons. You see them, you follow them until it is quiet and then you kill them.’
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Charlotte enjoyed the drive down to Lagrasse. The road was quiet, the sky was blue, the day was growing warmer and the scenery was breathtakingly beautiful. She wound the car window down and smelled the gentle breeze and thought of summer as they wended their way through a large valley with great lush fields framing the horizon. She could hear the birds chirping and the cattle roamed free across the green blanket that surrounded them. Her mind relaxed and softened amidst the calm of natural beauty, allowing her thoughts to slow from their usual hundred miles an hour to the gentle pace of a babbling brook. It was something she would never admit out loud, especially to Parker, but after years of isolation and segregation from the world, it was actually kind of nice to be able to share the load.
When the car reached the crest of the next hilltop, a picture postcard view stretched before them. The village of Lagrasse lay nestled below, encircled by a long, wide river that swept through the valley and twinkled enticingly in the sunlight.
‘It’s something isn’t it?’ Parker said from beside her, echoing her thoughts.
She felt embarrassed that she lacked the natural grace to articulate her own thoughts. Give her a beautiful face to stare upon and she could punch it, but she could not describe it.
‘Where are we heading?’ she said instead.
‘Well, we need information. I’m guessing that the world is the same all over. You want to know anything, you ask the gossips.’
‘Women?’
‘Contrary to popular belief, I would go for the nearest gathering of old men. No-one knows secrets like old men, and no-one has a looser tongue than a bored old man. The pub is always the heartbeat of a small village. We find that, and we’ll find out what we need.’
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Travis soon found what he was looking for. The small town pub was a place for locals to sit and drink. There was a half-hearted nod towards a food menu, but the board was dusty and looked rarely used. The place reeked of age and experience and the patrons echoed the building. Several men of indefinable wrinkled age lined the dark oak bar – deeply tanned brown leather faces, aged by the sun and constant nicotine intake.
As they entered, Travis sensed the eyes of suspicion on them and was encouraged by the sign, “Only locals view tourists with anything other than greed towards their wallets”.
A barman appeared before them with a raised eyebrow in greeting and a silent, if not unfriendly expression.
‘English?’ he asked in a thick accent.
Travis spoke conversational French, but his understanding of the language would be better served by listening rather than speaking.
‘Yes, how can you tell?’ he said in his friendliest voice.
‘I think it is the other side of town that you want,’ the barman said in faltering English. ‘They serve the holidaymakers.’
Travis smiled. ‘Actually my wife and I would like to get off the tourist track for a bit, if you don’t mind, that is?’
The barman shrugged as though it made no difference to him one way or the other.
‘Do you know –’ Charlotte started in a blundering fashion that Travis immediately interrupted.
‘Do you know what’s good on the menu?’ he asked, smiling and blinking at the barman.
‘We not do many food.’ He shrugged again. ‘Can do some bread and …’ He paused while he tried to find an English word, and then gave up. ‘Fromage?’ he asked the elderly patrons watching the exchange at the bar.
Travis knew that he was ask
ing for an English word for cheese, but he kept smiling patiently and waited.
One of the men answered the barman in French and they all laughed. Travis’s scant French was good enough for him to know that what the man said was that the barman should send the English away and this was not the place for them, and the barman had replied with something about how maybe they would actually spend some money here, unlike you old goats, which elicited more good natured laughter.
‘Anything would be fine,’ Charlotte said, smiling sweetly and joining in the act to Travis’s satisfaction. ‘Food and drink,’ she mimed, playing the tourist.
‘It will be a pleasure of mine,’ the barman replied, responding to her pretty smile.
Travis took a table close enough to the old men sitting at the counter to hear them, but far enough so that they would still talk comfortably to each other. The trick to finding out information was always patience: always say less than the other guy and always listen closer than he does.
The barman brought out an antipasto plate that would cost a small fortune in any restaurant back home. The platter was laden with cured meats, olives, peperoncini, mushrooms, anchovies, artichoke hearts, various cheeses, pickled meats and vegetables. The bread was warm and soft, the butter was real, and the aroma was enticing. Travis was famished and tucked in with relish. The barman also produced a small bottle of red wine and two glasses. Travis found himself feeling very civilised, dining in beautiful surroundings with a companion to match.
Travis ate slowly and acted as if he was enjoying the wine, which wasn’t difficult. He looked up to see Charlotte seemingly sharing his temporary contentment; it almost appeared as though both of them were unaccustomed to even the smallest pleasures in life. They shared a small knowing smile and Travis felt a stab of guilt at the gesture. He cursed himself for forgetting why he was here, even for the briefest of moments.