Extremities

by C A Devine

  ‘You are in a great deal of trouble, Ms McKenzie.’

  ‘Why would I be in trouble?’

  ‘Why did you not tell your father about this relationship?’

  ‘Do you tell your father about all your boyfriends?’

  A look crossed her face – shame, embarrassment? She glanced away over my shoulder. I couldn’t tell what it was, but it was something. ‘My father is not your father, Ms McKenzie. The stakes are not the same.’

  ‘Stakes, what are you talking about?’ I never told my father about my boyfriends. ‘What the hell is going on?’

  ‘Do you really have no respect for him? Do you never think how your behaviour might affect him? Have you no thoughts for anyone, but yourself?’ She was shouting by the end. I was staring at her. I couldn’t get my head around it.

  She closed her eyes and sighed, ‘Maybe we should start again.’ When she opened them and looked at me, she was the picture of composure, ‘Tell me what you know about Angelo Ariana.’

  ‘I’ll only speak to him.’

  ‘Where did you meet Mr Ariana?’ The repetition was becoming tedious. ‘Did he approach you or you him?’ I started pacing again. ‘It would be better for both of you if you spoke to me.’ I continued my walk staring at the brown stone walls. She sighed again. ‘Do you wish coffee?’

  I stopped and tilted my head, looking towards her wide-eyed and innocent, ‘With hot milk?’

  ‘But, of course, this is France.’

  ‘Sil-vous-plait.’ Okay, this may be becoming obvious, but my dad reckons I have a problem with authority.

  She left me sitting for twenty minutes. When she returned she placed a fine china cup, saucer and two jugs on the table, then left again. The coffee was good, the heat of the liquid helped to chase away the chill. Another hour passed: I sat, I paced, I tried the door – it was locked. I thought about smashing the cup and saucer against the floor and letting out a cry of frustration, but it looked like an antique and didn’t really deserve to be destroyed in my twenty-first century spat. I was going stir-crazy, but I knew they were watching and listening. I forced myself not to react.

  The door banged open again and in walked Dad.

  My father is the Assistant Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, in London. He works a lot with Interpol on anti-terror stuff. More than that, I don’t really know. He never talks about it. For obvious reasons, I guess.

  He’s a big, stern, authoritative Scotsman and when his huge neck bulges out over his collar and tie, it’s an intimidating sight.

  I’m an only child, a daddy’s girl, and in recent years it’s only been him and me. All that he asks of me is that I call him, once a week. I tell him where I am and what I’m up to. Minus boys, he was never great with boys. I love him dearly. He’s never kidnapped me before.

  The fact that he was behind this was causing my stomach to tie in knots. I ran across the room and hugged him. He stretched his huge arms around me and held me tight. I felt instantly better. He ran a soothing hand over my hair and kissed the top of my head, before pushing me back. ‘Are you okay?’ he mouthed. So people were listening. I nodded. ‘We’ll talk later, okay?’ I nodded again. He let go of me as the door swung open and Frenchie marched in, Twenty-Five and Fifty on her tail.

  ‘Daddy, your boys scared me,’ I whined in my best spoiled brat tone. ‘I think you need to reprimand them.’ Now Daddy would be of the mindset that I had got myself into whatever mess I was in, so maybe I deserved a bit of a scare. But they didn’t know that. Fifty seemed sceptical, but I definitely saw Twenty-Five squirm. It was a small victory, but it was sweet.

  ‘Sit down, Lucky,’ it was the adult equivalent of ‘don’t be cheeky, Lucky’, used often when I was a child. I lowered myself into the seat. He took the chair across from me, the others stood. ‘What do you know about Angelo Ariana?’ His look was casual, comfortable, a man with no doubt I’d tell him everything I knew.

  ‘As I explained to your colleague, not very much. He’s Italian and fabulously wealthy. He works in Marseilles. Doing what? I don’t know. He’s not very good in bed,’ I can’t help the cheek.

  ‘Lucky, don’t …’ Dad stopped himself. I’m thirty-two, not five, sometimes he forgets. ‘Please,’ he frowned. Twenty-Five’s jaw dropped, Fifty glared at me – I was starting not to like him – and Frenchie, in fairness, spluttered out a laugh. Although it was quickly punished by Dad’s death-ray eyes.

  ‘What?’ I held up my hands, ‘You asked what I knew. Oh, and he has the most incredible car. Cars actually.’ Dad rolled his eyes. ‘He has a Ferrari Testarossa,’ I said. ‘1985 classic,’ I looked around the group with a that explains it all look. All their eyes were firmly on me, watching me.

  ‘You and your damn car obsession, Lucky. I told your mother she should call you …’

  ‘Trouble, I know,’ I looked back up into his big chiselled face and he smiled a sad half-smile at me as he always did when he mentioned her. ‘What is going on? I trust you don’t grab the daughters of assistant commissioners off the street, scaring the life out of them, for nothing.’

  ‘We didn’t know if you were being followed. It had to be quick.’

  I nodded. I wondered if he knew how they had done it, with no explanation of who they were. But I was more interested in what was going on. ‘What is this all about?’

  ‘Angelo Ariana is a person of interest to us.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘We don’t believe it’s a coincidence that he has become involved with you,’ Dad said.

  ‘What does that mean?’ I didn’t like the sound of this.

  ‘He knows who you are and we think he may plan to use it.’

  ‘That’s why I asked if you approached him, or him you,’ Frenchie said.

  ‘You mean because of you?’ I fired it at Dad, ignoring her, ‘What? Do you think I can’t find my own boyfriends without your help?’ I had been kidnapped by my father, held against my will and now he was telling me my boyfriend was only going out with me for my parental connections. I snapped my head round to Frenchie, ‘This is why I don’t tell him about my boyfriends.’ Then back, ‘Are you really so wound up about my men,’ I shoved to my feet shouting, the chair clattering down behind me, ‘that you would accuse one of a crime so I would dump him?’

  Dad generally ignores my outbursts. Unfortunately Frenchie didn’t, ‘Ms McKenzie. You are cavorting with a terrorist. You are lucky we are not arresting you.’

  ‘A terrorist? Cavorting? What is this?’ I directed my outrage at my father.

  ‘Now, I suggest you sit back down and answer our questions,’ Frenchie said.

  ‘And I suggest you go fuck yourself,’ I bit back and turned for the door. Fifty stepped in front of me blocking it. ‘Get out of my way,’ I growled.

  ‘Angelo Ariana is smuggling alcohol and most probably other items from Europe to Afghanistan, out of the Port of Marseilles,’ Dad said.

  I turned and looked over at him, ‘What?’

  ‘We don’t have enough proof for a conviction yet,’ Frenchie let out a sigh, ‘but we know he is. Assistant Commissioner McKenzie heads up the Interpol investigation team.’

  ‘This is ridiculous, I have lived with this man for the last month, he’s not smuggling anything,’ I looked at Dad, but he only nodded.

  ‘I hardly think he would tell his new girlfriend that he was an international terrorist.’

  ‘Hold on a minute, I thought you said he was smuggling a bit of booze. Do you just throw the T-word around these days, for anyone you don’t quite like?’

  ‘And if you are not trained to look for the signs you would have no reason to suspect.’ I don’t know if Frenchie meant to be patronising, but that’s how I took it.

  ‘And maybe if you didn’t wear underwear in the heat, then your G-string wouldn’t be stuck up your arse, and you might be a more pleasant person.’

  ‘Lucky, stop it,’ Dad snapped.

  ‘Why are you defending her? I’m the one
that’s had my liberty,’ I turned to Frenchie, petulant. ‘That’s Liberté to you. I’m the one who’s had my liberty taken away.’ I spun back to my father, ‘What? Is she like your –?’ I stopped. Him and her? No possible way. ‘You have got to be kidding me.’ But I could see it in her face. He could win a fortune at poker, but she could hide nothing. It explained her earlier outburst. ‘She’s my age,’ it was huskier than I would have liked. I fought the welling of my eyes. ‘I’m not listening to anymore of this shit.’ I turned back to the door. Fifty stood his ground. ‘Don’t even think about it,’ I snarled.

  ‘Jason,’ my father nodded his head and Jason stepped aside.

  I strode back up the corridor, Dad on my heels. I banged through the door and into the garage, the Transit-van still stood in place. I was fighting back the tears. But who was I kidding, I was never there for him, I was always travelling. For all I knew he was sleeping with half the women in the Met. But why hadn’t he told me, instead of humiliating me in front of those people, in front of her? A tear slipped out and I flicked it away with my hand.

  Dad caught up with me and grasped my arm. ‘Let’s take a walk.’ He led me through a side door and out into a vineyard. Vines with newly sprouting shoots surrounded us for as far as the eyes could see.

  I turned away from him and sucked in the fresh air. I needed to calm down. Ahead on a hill stood a pink chateau, a turret sprung from each corner. I gasped in another breath, ‘Nice digs.’

  ‘The French let us use it.’

  ‘So you and Frenchie?’

  ‘Her name is Cecile,’ he looked at his shoes before meeting my gaze. ‘I know it’s a shock, but your old man is not yet an old man. It doesn’t mean I didn’t love your mother.’ I nodded; speaking would have started the tears again. ‘Whatever you think of my attitude to your boyfriends, you know I wouldn’t deliberately hurt you.’ I nodded again and leant into his big chest. He drew his arm around me. ‘This is serious, Lucky. I think you know that. I wouldn’t be doing this otherwise.’ I knew, but it didn’t stop me feeling hurt.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me about Cecile?’ I asked. ‘I must have spoken to you loads of times since …’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he shrugged, ‘I guess I was afraid you wouldn’t approve. As you so eloquently stated inside, I’ve never really been easy on any of your boyfriends. You would have every right to treat Cecile the same way,’ he shrugged again.

  I barked out a laugh, ‘That’ll teach you.’

  I told them everything I knew, which wasn’t very much, but I hadn’t been looking. Who knows what I might have been able to find, if I had.

  ‘Come on,’ Dad said, ‘we’ll settle you in and do something nice for dinner.’

  ‘Settle where?’

  ‘Here at the chateau.’

  I shook my head, ‘I’m on my way to San Tropez.’

  Dad rolled his eyes, ‘Can you give your old man a break for five minutes and just stay the night. It’s not like I get to see you very often and it’s nice digs,’ he threw his arms wide, ‘as you said. And we need to go through it all again in the morning. People often remember things after they have the night to mull it over. And I promise I’ll drive you to San Tropez myself.’

  *

  ‘I could get information for you.’ I had tossed and turned all night, staring up at the renaissance painting in the ceiling, running it through in my mind over and over, and always coming to the same conclusion.

  Dad frowned at me, ‘No Lucky, out of the question.’ Dad, Cecile and I were enjoying a silver service breakfast at a big round table in the dining room of the chateau. No more damp cold cellar.

  Cecile turned to look at Dad. ‘We need more information,’ she said. ‘The investigation is going nowhere. We don’t even have proof it is anything other than alcohol.’

  ‘Why would he be smuggling so much alcohol into a country where people don’t drink … the troops, of course, a bit politically sensitive then?’ I said, taking a bite from a warm pain-au-chocolat.

  ‘We have an informant at the New Port of Marseilles. Angelo meets a ship there, once a week. Different stands, different days, but always once a week,’ Cecile continued. ‘But we think he might have diversified. A couple of weeks ago we got a call from the Military Police. They had been investigating missing rifles and rounds from three different battalions of the same regiment. They had a munitions sergeant under surveillance after one of his colleagues reported seeing him with an Afghan man.’

  ‘So they assumed he was a terrorist? I love the progressive armed forces.’

  ‘He had film footage of the meeting.’ Cecile slid a photo across the table. ‘He’s not Italian.’ It was Angelo.

  ‘He’s Afghan?’

  She nodded, ‘Malak Ariana.’

  I looked at Dad, his face was blank.

  ‘Malak, it’s …’

  ‘Arabic for Angel,’ she snorted. ‘The destination of the ship is Pakistan. And we believe from there the cargo is being transported overland and smuggled across the border into Afghanistan.’

  ‘Is there not an easier way to get guns than British Army munitions supplies?’

  ‘There is always an easier way to do everything,’ Dad said.

  ‘We pulled in the munitions specialist, a sergeant. He denied everything. He claims he just bumped into the man on the street and the man asked him about his uniform.’

  ‘That sounds convincing.’

  ‘The sergeant is army through and through; he even had a brother killed in Afghanistan.’

  I raised an eyebrow.

  ‘They’ve been keeping him under surveillance, but he hasn’t met with him since.’ I was guessing since she was telling me all this that she had made up her own mind that it was going to happen. ‘We need the dates and locations of the transfer to the boat. The port is one of the biggest commercial ports in Europe, the place is a city. We need to narrow it down.’

  ‘I said no!’ Dad barked at her.

  ‘Think about it. She is in there already, has established some trust.’

  ‘There might be stuff lying around the house. I didn’t know to look before,’ I said.

  ‘Out of the question.’

  ‘Commissioner, you are thinking about this emotionally, not in terms of the investigation.’ I had to hand it to her, she had balls. I wouldn’t stand up to him like that if he wasn’t my father.

  ‘Damn right I am. In case you missed it. She’s my daughter!’ his voice echoed around the ornate dining room.

  ‘Of course and that is exactly why this might work. He thinks you would never use her in this way. Otherwise he would never have wooed her in the first place.’

  ‘Wooed?’ I said.

  She looked at me, ‘It’s not a good word?’

  ‘I guess it works.’

  ‘You don’t know what you are suggesting,’ Dad said to me, ‘you are not trained. He’d kill you if he caught you. I know you, you think I don’t, but I know you’re only offering to do this to get back at him?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you do the same thing?’

  ‘Like I said, I know you.’

  ‘I want to do it.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Cecile?’ I said, looking at her.

  ‘Anyway,’ Dad said, ‘you have been gone overnight, so he would know instantly there was something wrong.’

  ‘No, he wouldn’t. He’s away on business for a couple of days.’

  ‘Where?’ they said in unison.

  ‘I don’t know, but if I go back I can find out.’

  ‘I said no.’

  ‘It’s not necessarily your decision, Commissioner.’

  ‘Don’t you dare even think about going there, Inspector.’

  ‘I am just asking you to look at the facts. She has the means and the relevant skills.’ Was this going to cause a lover’s tiff? I was definitely juvenile enough to enjoy that.

  *

  A chill ran through me as I crossed the threshold.

  Dad had contin
ued to protest, but eventually Cecile and I won out. He had remained silent and angry for the rest of my time at the chateau, but as we parted he had leaned in and kissed my forehead murmuring, ‘Stay safe.’

  Angelo walked in through the door from his trip a mere two hours later. I was unpacked and lounging on the couch, reading. He came over, kissed the top of my head and dropped a blue box on my lap. ‘A little something for the woman I love,’ it was the first time he had said it. The shiver returned.

  I pulled the top off the Tiffany’s box and looked down at a necklace containing a dozen pea sized diamonds. I lifted it in my hand and watched the jewels sparkle in the lamplight. I had made the wrong decision.

  13

  The Rage (Day 4)

  ‘Hey, English, here, now, eat.’ It was lunchtime on the fourth day and she had barely lifted her head from the iPad. When I had got up she was already hard at work. I had brought her a breakfast of eggs, bacon and toasted stale bread. For lunch I cooked up a feast of salad, spaghetti and cake from the Azores, but she wasn’t budging from the desk. ‘Hey, English, here, now, eat,’ I shouted it again. She grumbled, but she got up from the chart table. She stepped into the galley and retrieved a glass and a bottle of Scotch before joining me at the table in the saloon.

  The formal setting turned out to be a big mistake. We were trolling through a deep swell and the plates kept sliding from one side of the table to the other. ‘Are you feeding me up, New York?’ Max asked, taking a swig from the glass.

  ‘I certainly am, I have a lot of voyeuristic hours invested in that ass of yours. I intend to see it at its best once again.’ I was rewarded with a small laugh just as the satellite phone rang.

  It was Joe. I put it on speaker, ‘How are you both?’

  ‘We’re tipping along. Steep swell, but the wind is good. How is the investigation going?’

  ‘We’re no closer to finding him. And no clearer as to why he is doing it,’ Joe said.

  ‘It’s just so creepy,’ Max said.

  ‘That’s putting it mildly,’ he sighed. ‘Are you sure you’re telling me everything, Lizzie? Are you sure you don’t know what he’s planning? Or why he’s doing it?’