‘It’s gone, Dad,’ he whispered. ‘It’s dead.’
A police siren cut through the dream, and Faraday awoke to find himself looking at the ceiling. He rubbed his eyes, wondering vaguely where on earth he was. Then he saw the Ibis notepad on the table beside the bed and the tiny pile of euros he’d pocketed in change from the brasserie. Paris, he thought. Time to get moving.
The receptionist at the Royal Trafalgar had a message for Winter when he arrived. The new sauna, she said, was at last ready. Later that morning there was to be a formal opening. Bazza had laid hands on a couple of Scandinavian air hostesses who were prepared to pose for publicity shots in return for a free weekend. In the meantime he was trying out the new facility for himself. Winter was welcome to join him. The invitation had the force of an order.
Winter hated saunas. The last couple of years had done nothing for his waistline and he had no intention of sharing lungfuls of scalding air with anyone, least of all Mackenzie. On the other hand he had an hour to get back to Lou Sadler before the rest of her day put her out of reach. She wanted to come over tomorrow with the money. She was suggesting a handover around noon. She needed a rendezvous and an assurance that everything was in place.
The sauna was in the basement, alongside the gym. Winter tugged on the heavy wood door and let himself into the tiny changing room. Mackenzie’s jeans and leather jacket were hanging on a hook, middle of the row. He appeared to be alone. There was a window in the door that led to the sauna itself. Winter stepped across and took a look. Bazza was sitting on the bench on the far side, a white hotel towel folded over his lap. His eyes were closed and his head was back against the wall. Sweat had beaded on his face and Winter could see the slow rise and fall of his chest, but there was an oddness in the way his body had slumped to one side.
Winter hauled on the door, knowing something wasn’t right. The heat enveloped him, thick with resin.
‘Baz?’ he shouted. ‘Baz?’
Mackenzie didn’t move.
Faraday was back in the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré by half past nine. The shop was still closed. He stood on the pavement for a moment or two, wondering what to do. Keeping obs outside a police station, he told himself, was an invitation to get arrested. The French were picky about stuff like this. If he wanted to get close to Philippe Stern, he had to be patient.
He walked to the big traffic intersection at the end of the street, eyed the gleaming mass of parked scooters, then began to browse the line of shops that led towards the Parc Monceau. High-class kitchen equipment. A clinique vétérinaire. A huge canvas in the window of an art gallery, an angry swirl of blacks and whites. He wandered on, intrigued by the emptiness of his head. He didn’t feel angry any more, or even upset. Gabrielle had come and gone, taking everything with her. All that was left were these few precious moments in the thin Parisian sunshine.
The park took him by surprise, appearing suddenly to his right, a frieze of winter trees beyond a wrought-iron fence at the end of an avenue. The houses on either side of the avenue were grand, heavy security, shuttered windows, and a maid cleaning the brass on one of the big front doors paused to watch him wander by.
In the park he settled peaceably on a bench, wishing he’d brought something for the marauding squirrels. There were joggers doing circuits, and Faraday shut his eyes, waiting for the soft, steady lap-lap of their trainers on the wetness of the sandy path. There were young Asian women too, pushing prams. They looked Thai, and Faraday had a brief vision of himself and Gabrielle on the bus in the mountains, the hot afternoon they’d first met. He could remember exactly what she was wearing, every detail, and he remembered too the single ring she wore on her left hand. It was thin, silver, delicate. Once they were living together she’d taken it off, and he never saw it again.
He tipped his head back, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his face. Could you ever really know another person? Could you ever be sure about them? Be certain? Could you make a little parcel of yourself and hand it across for safe keeping? Or was this single act of trust, so absolute, so reckless, bound to end in betrayal? He didn’t know, and the realisation that he didn’t much care any more brought a smile to his lips. He’d once met a Buddhist monk on a ferry on the Mekong river who’d talked of the lightness of being, of the mistake we make in looking for significance in a waste of emptiness. Maybe he was right, he thought. Maybe that’s where this journey ends. Back in the mountains. Back on the bus. Back in the steamy heat of the jungle.
The ambulance was at the Royal Trafalgar in minutes. Winter had sent the receptionist to find one of the hotel’s freebie towelling robes, and the paramedics wheeled Mackenzie out through the lobby, wrapped in powder blue, still unconscious. Winter had phoned Marie, and she drove up to meet him at the hospital. Early word from the resus crew at A & E indicated a stroke, a diagnosis Marie found hard to accept. She was pale with shock.
‘He’s still in his forties, Paul. That doesn’t happen.’
Winter didn’t know what to believe. Half an hour earlier he’d been assuming some kind of heart attack, probably mild, probably triggered by a night on the tiles and far too long in the sauna. Bazza had always attacked life, seizing it by the throat and giving it a good shake, and a mild heart attack would have been life’s way of answering back. A stroke, on the other hand, was something very different. A stroke could empty your head. A stroke could put you in a wheelchair for the rest of your life. A stroke could turn you into a serious dribbler.
Winter went across to the machine to fetch a coffee for Marie. He was fumbling for the right change when his mobile began to peep. It was Lou Sadler. She was still waiting for an answer.
Winter glanced back at Marie. She was sitting in a puddle of sunshine beneath one of the big plate-glass windows, staring into nowhere. Someone had to take charge of this thing, he told himself. Someone had to start making decisions.
‘Tomorrow, Lou. Twelve noon. Come to the hotel.’
By midday, the shop was still closed. Faraday had a beer in the brasserie next door then stepped back onto the street to make the call. The beer had made him light-headed. It felt like a bird in his chest, an odd fluttering sensation, not unpleasant. He was wondering what kind of bird it might be when the call finally answered. It was a male voice, slightly formal, clipped, precise French. To Faraday it spoke of a world where people were expected to state their business. Who are you? What do you want?
Faraday gave his name. He said he wanted to talk to Monsieur Philippe Stern.
‘Un moment, s’il vous plaît.’
Another voice, older, softer.
‘Oui, monsieur?’
Faraday stared at the phone. This wasn’t working out the way he’d anticipated. He stumbled in French, had trouble with the simplest phrases, couldn’t work out what he wanted to say.
Stern seemed to understand. His English was heavily accented.
‘Come round,’ he said. ‘Come round and see me.’
He gave Faraday directions. He lived in an apartment block in the Rue Monceau. Number 14. On foot it was less than five minutes away. Press the buzzer for Flat 8. It was on the top floor. How wise of Mr Faraday not to bother with a car.
Stern rang off.
Number 14 was a four-storey building next to a school. The shutters needed a coat of paint and there was a rain-soaked poster for a Christmas organ recital on the shabby green doors. When Faraday crossed the street for a better view, he noticed the eruption of flowers on one of the top-floor balconies.
The buzzer opened the door at once. Faraday stepped inside. A lift awaited him behind an old-fashioned grille. The grille made a clanking noise when he slid it back. Inside was a full-length mirror, gilt-framed. Faraday studied himself as the the lift creaked upwards. He looked old, broken, used-up. There was a fleck of something yellow on the front of his shirt which smudged when he tried to get it off. No matter, he thought. Tant pis.
As the lift came to a halt on the fourth floor, he became aware of a tall figur
e waiting for him in the shadows. He slid the doors open, robbed of any idea of what to do next. In his previous life this was the moment when he confronted the prime suspect. There’d be a procedure, a form of words, the comfort of knowing that his job was nearly done. Now he could barely put one foot in front of the other.
The face was ageless, maybe early fifties. He was wearing jeans and a collarless grey shirt. A couple of days’ stubble darkened his chin. Firm handshake. Bewildering smile.
‘You are welcome. Please call me Marc.’
‘Marc?’
‘Come.’
Faraday followed him into the flat. The apartment was enormous, flooded with sunshine. An elderly man was sitting beside the window, a copy of Le Monde folded on his lap. He was wearing a pair of baggy old corduroy trousers, and the heavy roll-neck sweater looked hand-knitted. He had a bony indoor face, blotched with liver marks, and he badly needed a haircut.
‘My father, Philippe.’
The old man waved Faraday into the nearby armchair. There was a jug of coffee on the table between them and a couple of cups.
‘You like cakes? My son makes fine madeleines. Marc …?’
Marc disappeared into the adjoining room. Faraday heard the discreet clatter of plates. His sense of direction had deserted him. Who was Marc? How come Philippe was so old? And why did they seem to be expecting him?
‘You are with Gabrielle? No?’
‘No.’ Faraday shook his head. ‘I’m here alone. By myself.’
‘I mean … donc … in life. You and Gabrielle are together, n’est-ce pas?’
Absurd, Faraday thought. A film script. Surreal. He needed to get his bearings. He needed to play the copper again. Just one more time. He needed to find out.
‘You know Gabrielle?’
‘Of course.’
‘How come?’
‘Because she’s a friend, a family friend.’ He smiled, benign. ‘Notre petite. The little Gabrielle who so enchanted us. My other son, especially.’
‘Not Marc?’
‘Pas du tout.’ A wistful smile. ‘Benoît.’
‘They were …?’
‘Très proches.’ He nodded. ‘In love. Always. Gabrielle et Benoît. Presque mariés.’
‘When?’
‘Many years ago.’ He shaded his eyes with his hand, looking for his other son. ‘Benoît … quand est-il mort?’
‘Il y a quinze ans, papa.’
Benoît died fifteen years ago. He’d been engaged to Gabrielle. Faraday didn’t know what to say. He felt like a trespasser.
‘I’m sorry,’ he managed at last. ‘I shouldn’t be here.’
‘You are welcome. Please …’ Stern waved a frail hand at the plate of madeleines and insisted Faraday help himself. ‘You’ve seen the little one? The little girl?’
‘Of course.’
‘And how is she?’
‘Tiny. Un petit bout de chou.’ A scrap of a child. Faraday managed a smile. His French was coming back.
‘We were pleased to help.’ The old man nodded. ‘For me it was an honour.’
‘Help?’ Faraday was lost again.
‘Of course. With the money. Gabrielle phoned me from Egypt. You were there. You were there with her in the hospital.’ He touched his own head, a gesture of sympathy, then reached forward and patted Faraday on the knee. ‘She worries about you … notre petite.’
‘She does?’
‘Very much. You know that I’m Jewish? Did she tell you that?’
‘No. She told me nothing. Nothing about Benoît. Nothing about you.’
‘Vraiment?’ He smiled. He seemed to approve. Life today, he said, was full of confessions. People wanted to share all of themselves. It had become a kind of disease. Here in France. Maybe in England too. But Gabrielle, it seemed, had resisted the infection. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Very good.’
‘So she phoned you from Egypt …?’
‘Oui. She wanted money for the little one. I knew about these children. I knew about Gaza. It was everywhere, on the television, in the papers. Atroce, n’est-ce pas?’
Faraday could only agree. Grotesque. Horrible. Atrocious. He’d seen the results himself. It seemed, in some unfathomable way, to have changed his life. But why would someone Jewish offer that kind of money?
‘You want the truth? I was ashamed. I’m still ashamed. I’m not a Zionist. I have no wish to live in Israel, Monsieur. But these are my people, these are Jews, and what they are doing is wrong. So …’ he leaned forward again ‘… I was so happy to help. I’ve had a good life, a lucky life. After my wife died, Marc looks after me. Family is important. You think so too?’
‘Yes.’ Faraday felt himself nodding. ‘Of course.’
‘And so now the little girl. Leila. She’s coming to you? She’s going to be part of your family?’
Faraday left the question unanswered. He wanted to know more about Benoît.
‘He was in the army … my son. He was a paratrooper. Quel gars!’ What a lad.
Gabrielle, he said, had met him on holiday in Sharm-el-Sheikh. In those days the resort had barely existed. Benoît loved scuba diving. Gabrielle was trying to learn.
‘Et voilà. He was always generous, Benoît, but that year he came back with a special present.’
‘Gabrielle?’
‘Oui. Our little enchantress. You say this in English … no?’
‘Yes.’ Faraday nodded. A weaver of spells. The perfect description.
‘And then they live together for a while, fall in love properly. My son, he wants to get married.’
‘And Gabrielle?’
‘Not so keen. But she loved him. I know she loved him. Why? Because she told me so. Here, in this room. She called me papa. I love this word.’
Faraday said nothing. After Benoît, he thought, a grumpy English flic must have been a sore disappointment.
‘So what happened to your son?’
‘He died. He was in a helicopter in Corsica. With the army. The helicopter crashed. Quelle horreur.’ He winced, then looked away.
The memory appeared to drive the air out of him. He seemed to physically deflate. His other son fetched a box of Kleenex and put it on his lap. Faraday, watching the old man plucking for a tissue, sensed that this was something that probably happened often.
He reached for another madeleine, wondering how far to take this conversation. He’d come to bury a relationship that had mattered more to him than anything else in the world. That single act, he’d told himself, would leave him with a kind of peace. Now, thanks to his own preconceptions, he was more troubled than ever. He’d spent thirty years in the Job learning why you never assumed anything before testing it first. If only he’d paid more attention.
From somewhere deep in the apartment came the sound of a buzzer. Marc left the room. Faraday heard a brief murmur of conversation. The old man was looking at his watch. Time to go, Faraday thought.
He got to his feet and extended a hand. The old man peered up at him, shaking his head.
‘Pas encore,’ he said softly. Not yet.
Confused, Faraday wondered whether to sit down again. Then he recognised the metallic crash of the lift door in the shared hallway, followed by more conversation. Marc was already out there, already waiting, the sentry at the gate. Faraday was looking at the flowers on the balcony, the line of terracotta pots, the carefully tended stands of geraniums, marvelling at their resilience. In the depths of winter, he thought, a blaze of colour and light.
‘Chéri?’ The voice was soft. He hesitated, then glanced round. The black beret. The hoop earrings. And a huge bunch of lilies from the florist on the corner.
Gabrielle.
Winter was back at Blake House when Jimmy Suttle arrived. He’d spent most of the day at the QA, keeping Marie company while she waited for Bazza to regain consciousness. She sat beside the bed, stroking his hand, whispering in his ear, telling him about Ezzie, about the kids, about how they wanted him home, back safe, and when he finally stirred she n
uzzled his bristly face with her cheek and told him she loved him. The news opened Bazza’s eyes. He seemed to recognise Marie. He even managed the beginnings of a wink for Winter. But then the darkness overwhelmed him and he drifted away again.
Winter waited for Suttle to come up in the lift. Marie wanted no one to know about what had happened to Mackenzie. It was, she said, a family affair. No publicity. No agonising to friends. No thunder from the Pompey tom-toms. Just a discreet silence.
Suttle looked knackered. He turned down the offer of a drink and produced an A4 envelope from under his anorak. It had started to rain again, he said. With a bit of luck he might make it home by nine.
‘So what’s this?’ Winter was looking at the envelope.
‘Little present.’
‘Who from?’
‘All of us.’
‘Including Willard?’
‘Yes.’
Winter nodded, intrigued, then opened the envelope. Inside were five sheets of A4 paper, single-spaced typing. He glanced at the top page. It seemed to be an intel report. He’d seen hundreds of these things on Major Crime jobs.
‘So who’s Martin Skelley?’ he said.
‘He’s a face from Liverpool. He’s made a bob or two from the laughing powder and set himself up in a distribution business. It’s all in there. Help yourself.’
Winter nodded, his eyes returning to the report.
‘But what the fuck’s any of this got to do with me?’
Suttle was already on the way to the door. He paused, looked round.
‘He’s got your toot, mate.’ He offered a tired grin. ‘Your boss might want to get it back.’
Afterwards
Bazza Mackenzie made a full recovery. The original stroke diagnosis was abandoned in favour of something the neurological consultant termed a ‘minor cerebral event’, a description that Mackenzie viewed as a borderline insult. Nonetheless, he agreed to take things easy for a while and reluctantly consented to leave the day-to-day management of his affairs to Winter and Marie.
On the Sunday Winter swapped the black bin liner containing Johnny Holman’s kit for 350,000 euros. He drove Lou Sadler back to Blake House and wouldn’t let her leave until he’d counted the lot. Once he’d finished, he gave her a lift to the hovercraft terminal and planted a peck on her cheek before she stepped out of the car. She lingered for a moment or two, amused by this small gesture of affection, and offered to send Monique Duvall over for a freebie, but Winter wasn’t having it. He’d seen what freebies had done to Johnny Holman. Thank you, but no.
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