‘There’s still work to be done out there. There’s anti-immigrant feeling in all the channel ports. Brest and Calais aren’t the only ones. What you’ve found out so far — the list of names, the codeword, are extremely valuable to us. This fire at the conference centre, Roman driving Dingle away need further investigation. We are fishing in a very murky pond.’
10
The bus was full. She stood most of the way from Westminster Embankment to the Euston Road. Four young girls with scraped back hair and cheap hooped earrings the size of cartwheels were sitting on the seats reserved for elderly and handicapped people. Mackie was itching to show them her ID and tick them off. She thought better of it. She wondered how Harris and his crew were getting on with finding Niall’s assailants. She’d given them the low down.
Neil was in a slightly better mood when she got home.
‘It looks like I’ll be going on secondment,’ she told him.
‘You’re going away again? Well, I’ll be all right. Tanya’s coming after class. She’ll look after me.’
‘I’d best find some sheets for the spare room then.’
‘She’ll be sleeping with me.’
‘What?’
‘Oh for Christ’s sake, Ma. Would you rather I was gay?’
‘You just seem to flit from one girl to the next. How long is this one likely to last?’
‘At least she’ll be around.’
‘Niall, I can’t account for your hostility towards me.’
‘After everything you’ve done for me. I know.’
‘I don’t want a reward for being your mother, athough the way you’re behaving kind of begs for one. Do you hold me responsible for sending you out to get the take away? Is that it?’
‘I told you. I’m fine on my own when you’re away. Peace and quiet. Freedom from stupid questions and nagging. Freedom from you, if you want to know. And yes, before you say it, I know this is your house. When I’m over this, I’m moving out.’
‘Do what you want. I’m going to lie down. Can I get you anything before I do?’
‘No. Tanya’s coming.’
‘So she is.’
He was twenty two. He wanted to flee the coop. She had to let him go. But, Mother of God, she would miss him. She lay down on her bed, her eyes smarting. She had trained herself not to cry, not to give in to feelings. That was the force. It was what had seen her through the events at the château. How could she get back in with the community? They’d rejected her. She had burnt her bridges.
The phone went off in her bag. Duroc.
‘I am glad to make contact with you,’ he said. ‘I wanted to tell you that we’ve identified the two people who were killed in the fire at the château’s conference centre. They were Lucie Carval and Peter Roman. The girl’s father identified her from the chain she was wearing. A woman from the community recognised Roman’s signet ring. She asked for his remains be taken to the château. The community will make arrangements for the interment. Marie-Noelle L’Oiseau has made a full confession to starting the fire There was petrol on her clothes. I regret to give you this news,’ he said gently. ‘It was a crime of passion.’
Part Five: The Rat Catcher
1
Rudyard thought that Roman’s death was a highly significant event. ‘Go to the antique shop in Clerkenwell – it’s called Little Gem, and talk to his brother. Offer your condolences. See how he reacted to the news. His contacts are on the USB. He may be your means of returning to the château. We haven’t found any Babel connection to him. See what he knows about them.’
‘I’ll get straight on to it.’
The USB stick held four folders: Contacts, Work in progress, Conference, Community. She opened the contacts folder and recognised a couple of names from the Babel list and an email address for Schmidt. Nothing for James Roman. She ran a search on Google. Amongst the jewellers and the childrens’ toy manufacturers. she found James Roman: Little Gem: magic lantern sales and repairs. By appointment only. There was an email address and a phone number.
She called the garage to ask if her car was ready. Forrest answered the phone.
‘All done and dusted, Inspector. I’ll get the brandy out.’
‘Does that mean it’s going to cost me an arm and a leg?’
‘We’ve sorted the insurance. It’s cheaper than a new car, and it purrs like a cat now.’
‘I’ll come now and collect it.’
The garage mews was always noisy. Hammering, engine revs, men singing in a medley of languages. She recognised Hindi, Urdu, Greek, Maltese. Her car looked brand new. Dev had beaten out the dents and resprayed it. The windows and tyre had been replaced. Terry had given it a service and filled the tank.
‘There was a petrol can in the boot,’ she told him.
‘The boot was empty. The spare wheel was gone, too. They must have nicked it.’
A grotesque trophy, perhaps? She couldn’t stomach the thought that her petrol had been used to start the fire that killed Roman.
She remembered him at the coast. That freezing wind, the tepid coffee. She should have told him how she felt about him after...
‘Are you all right, Inspector?’
‘I’m fine. I’ve just got a bit of a cold. You look tired.’
Terry yawned: ‘There was a lock in last night at The Lion. Sergeant Harris came in. He was talking to Forrest. I had seven pints.’
‘Still under the eight, then’’
Harris would have got a nice little bonus from the insurance. The bill came to nine hundred pounds and a couple of pence. Somehow, though, it didn’t seem important. Not now. She had run up a lot of expenses, but Rudyard had told her the Service would cover them. The claim for Nice had been processed already.
The car ran very smoothly on the way to Clerkenwell. The traffic wasn’t bad at all. The congestion charge, which she didn’t have to pay, had stemmed the flow somewhat, and made it easier for the police to get to incidents without crashing into other vehicles or knocking pedestrians over. She’d become aware of noise in London since staying at the château for a month. The house was near Euston Station. There was a lull with the trains during the small hours, then the Underground started. She could hear it rumbling when she was in the kitchen. Niall must hear it in the basement when he was practicing. He couldn’t dance until his leg was better. He’d be on the sofa, playing computer games, or loved up with Tanya. She didn’t want to think about that. It took her back to the place where she had been held and caressed. She’d thought of leaving it a few months before getting in touch with Roman again. She’d thought they would meet up in London. She’d thought they would resume relations. She had fallen for him. He was gone.
2
She drew up before a row of small Georgian houses, and parked on a double yellow line. It was an advantage, sometimes, to be a police detective. She could park anywhere. She walked around to the pedestrianised square where Little Gem was situated. The shop was shut. By appointment only. She rang the bell anyway, and waited. A brass projector was on display behind the pebble glass window. She had to peer very hard to make it out.
A voice came through the entry phone. ‘What name is it?’
‘I’m Detective Inspector Divine from the Metropolitan Police.’
‘What do you want?’
‘Can I come in and talk to you?’
The door buzzed open. Behind it was Roman. He looked warily at her.
‘You came back to London! I thought you’d gone for good. I’m so relieved, Roman. I thought you were...’
‘I’m Jem Roman. I don’t suppose he told you he has a twin. Do you have ID?’
She flashed it, and followed him into the shop. He picked up a box of glass slides from an old plush chair: ‘Please take a seat.’
It was incredible. He had the same voice, the same features, the same aloof manner. She remained standing.
‘Please accept my sincere condolences, sir. I’m here to talk to you about the conference centre that your brot
her ran in Brittany. I realise it must be very difficult for you, under the circumstances, but we have been monitoring the funders in connection with arson attacks in Europe and the UK. Any information about the funding group is crucial to the investigation.’
‘I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Can I see that ID again?’
She passed it over to him. He examined it closely, scanning her face carefully to check the image, then handed it back to her.
‘You don’t know, do you?’ she said softly.
‘You’re not making sense.’
‘I’m sorry. I’ve been staying at the château as a guest. There was a fire at the conference centre. I was there when it happened.’
‘What happened?’
‘Two people died in the fire. One of them was Peter Roman.’
He dropped the box on the floor. There was a noise of glass shattering.
‘Can I get you anything – a drink?’
He sank onto the chair and clutched his chest. She had seen this reaction many times before in her career in the police. It was one of the worst aspects of the job. There was shock, incredulity, denial. Then tears. They were the worst. The anger came later.
‘You say there was a fire, and my brother died. I spoke to him last week about the convention.’
‘I’m very sorry. It was a conflagration. The centre was razed to the ground.’
He began to sob, unashamedly. She knelt beside him on the dusty floorboards. There was nothing to do but let the tears fall. At length, he put his hand on her head. ‘There’ll be things to see to. I’ll have to go out there.’
‘Is there anyone you need to let know?’
‘I’m his next of kin. My father’s dead.There’s no one else.’
‘The community are making arrangements.’
‘Arrangements?’ He rubbed his hand across his face. He wore a signet ring. That single thing in dull old gold might have set her off. She forced herself to behave like a police officer. Maintain your composure. Don’t let your feelings show.
‘The authorities have released his body.’
‘Where is he?’
‘With the community, I expect.’
‘I’m not having that bunch of woolly-minded lunatics bury my brother. I must bring him home. Will you come with me?’
‘If you’d like me to, yes. There are plenty of flights to Brest.’
‘I don’t fly. I’ll go by train.’
‘I could drive you. My car’s outside. Before we go, I should tell you that I’ve been working there under cover. I’ll return in an official capacity.’
‘I’ll fetch my passport and wallet.’
She heard him run up the stairs. There was petrol in the tank, a toothbrush, and a spare pair of tights in her handbag. Niall had Tanya to look after him. She texted Rudyard: Returning to Retreat with James Roman. He didn’t know about the fire.
They caught one of the fast ferries, and sat in the business lounge in the atrium, away from the crowd. There had been a long line of trucks, snaking into the hold. It felt like déjà vu. She looked at Jem. He had said very little on the drive to Dover, and sat in the car while she paid for the passage.
‘I got to know your brother quite well in the time I was there,’ she ventured. ‘He told me about his philosophy on life.’
‘That was just a hotch-potch of half digested ideas and loony creeds. Well, I suppose he took the road less travelled by.’
‘I think he might have lost his way. You’re an antique dealer?’
‘He wanted me to do a lantern show for the funders of his enterprise when the centre opened. I refused to do it. I haven’t seen him for three years. Did he know you were a police officer?’
‘Yes, but he thought I was taking a break, not there in an official capacity.’
‘You’d not have got in, otherwise. They’re a peculiar lot. I’d arranged to hold the Servants of Light convention there this year because it’s – was – a very good venue. Peter was excited about it. I was planning to go on ahead and check the fire safety arrangements. They weren’t up to scratch, were they?’ He closed his eyes.
‘You could find another venue, maybe.’
He shook his head.
‘Can I get you another drink?’
‘I think I’ll try to sleep. These chairs recline, don’t they?’
‘I believe so.’
He drifted off. She watched him sleeping beside her: Roman asleep in the bed in the conference centre, his dark hair dishevelled, his beard pricking through his neck and chin. All those flimsy fittings — light wood, curtains, sheets. It would have spread like wildfire. She planned to use her police credentials to get a stab at interviewing Marie-No. The confession, so soon after the event, sounded bogus. Torching a building like that called for careful planning. Scout and his mates would be capable of it. What would the MO of Marie-No have been? Cart a load of petrol over to the conference centre, pour it all around the place, light a match, and run like hell. It didn’t seem likely. There were fire doors all over the building. It would have taken several cans of petrol for the fire to have spread so quickly. Marie-No was small, dumpy, and simple. There was no conference there that night, no reason for expecting Lucie to be there, waitressing. A slow-witted girl would not have been able to act on the spur of the moment, jealousy and grudges notwithstanding. Duroc wasn’t a fool. He was investigating criminally inspired arson in the region. He knew about the Dutch ex legionnaires and their connection with a right wing group that had discussed public protests and riots and measures with which to deal with them. She’d given him a telling portrait of Scout. Surely, he could see a pattern emerging here. She saw it. Rudyard saw it. Was Duroc sentimental – a crime of passion? He was a magistrate. He had no business being sentimental. He wasn’t authentic. Roman had thought that about her. But he wasn’t authentic either.
3
They arrived at the château at half past nine. The heavy double doors were unlocked, so they walked straight in. Herbert and Sofka were lingering over coffee in the dining room. Joanna came in to collect the cups, and screamed.
Jem addressed Sofka. ‘I believe we’ve met before. Why didn’t you contact me?’ He pulled a chair out for Mackie. ‘Sit down. You must be exhausted.’
‘What’s she doing here?’ Herbert asked. ‘We asked her to leave.’
‘I asked you a question. Where are my brother’s remains?’
Sofka recovered herself: ‘The undertaker is bringing him home tomorrow evening. We plan to hold a vigil before we bury him.’
‘I intend to make arrangements to take him back to London.’
‘He wanted to be buried here. He said so when we buried Gerald, didn’t he, Joanna?’
‘I will need the name of the undertakers.’ He rubbed a hand across his face. ‘I don’t want to discuss this now.’
Mackie got up and touched him lightly on the sleeve. I’ll show you where he slept.’
‘You are not welcome here,’ Sofka told her. ‘Respect our wishes. We are grieving for our brother.’
‘His brother’s here. I’m not retreating now. I am acting with authority, as a police officer. A British subject has been killed unlawfully.’
Roman’s room was on the first floor. It had been the master bedroom, then the honeymoon suite in the days when the château was a hotel. A wreath of garden flowers had been placed on the bed. Jem picked it up and tossed it on the floor.
‘I’ll be upstairs with the women,’ she said.
‘Stay here. Please stay.’ He lay down, fully clothed, and closed his eyes. She hesitated for a minute, then lay down beside him. His eyes were shut, but she knew he wouldn’t sleep. She wouldn’t either. This hadn’t been a place for sleeping. She remembered him running a bath for her, afterwards. Her eyes smarted. Let it out, let it out. In God’s name what’s the matter with me? Why can’t I cry? It was the same when Niall was assaulted. Police mode. Eventually, the physicality of exhaustion drove her to sleep. She woke again whe
n she heard the birds.
3
Jem sat up. His beard was very evident now, which made him look less like his twin.
‘I could fix us some breakfast before they get up,’ she suggested. ‘I’ll just run a comb through my hair and brush my teeth.’
He was sitting on the edge of the bed, contemplating the wreath of flowers, when she came out of the bathroom. ‘I’ll come down with you.’
‘We’ll have breakfast in the study. It’s more private.’
‘I’ll have to talk to them all.’
‘When you’ve had something to eat. A coffee, at least.’ She had bought sandwiches for them both on the ferry, but he hadn’t eaten his.
‘Im not a fan of coffee.’
‘I’ll see if there’s some tea left. They might have chucked it out though because it was mine.’
The packet was where she had left it. The others were still in bed, thank God. She brewed up, and took the tray into the study. He was sitting at Roman’s desk, looking in the drawers.
‘I’ve brought some bread. It’s still fresh.’ It was artisan bread, baked by Iris. Toenail bread, Niall would have called it. ‘I’ve brought marmalade, too — a produit du Château.’
He took a slice of bread, and slathered butter on it. She poured the tea. She didn’t feel like eating.
‘How long did you stay here before?’
‘Just over a month.
‘Did you find anything out?’
‘I found enough to satisfy my superiors. I don’t think your brother was up to anything untoward. He was a little naïve perhaps, about this place.’
He smiled faintly, but his face soon clouded over. ‘I want to make an inventory of the pictures. Would you give me a hand? It’s an imposition, I know, but I don’t want them to do it. I’d like to get back as soon as possible. But you have work to do here. I can get a train to the port.’
‘I’ll be glad to give you a hand, and glad to drive you back to London. I liked your brother very much.’
The Retreat Page 13