‘So what did you do?’ Jacquot broke in.
‘The chopper again. Came in overhead, established radio contact. And there was no problem at all. They were fine. Just testing a new rudder assembly, some big refit, the skipper said. Beautiful boat too, according to our pilot. Real style.’
A beautiful boat, thought Jacquot. Real style.
Nice-looking, Bruno had said at Chez Huit. She’ll have some style, that’s for sure.
‘Do you happen to remember her name?’ asked Jacquot, an unexpected fluttering in his stomach.
‘Not off the top of my head, but I could check.’
Jacquot smiled. That would be very kind of him.
Torne went over to a computer terminal and started work on the keyboard, making his way through a number of links until he found what he was searching for. He looked up from the screen. ‘Here it is. Contacted oh-eight-seventeen hours today. Local motor yacht. Out of L’Estaque but registered in Mata-Utu. MY Léonie.’
91
BY THE TIME HE REACHED the garage doors leading into the Cabrille estate, Gastal was feeling more confident, a little more in control of the situation. On the walk from his car, the two men accompanying him had been oddly deferential, as though a gun had never been drawn to ensure his compliance, and every effort had been made to keep the umbrella over his head as the three of them walked together up rue Cornille, waited for passing traffic on de Roucas and then made their way up the impasse.
‘Terrible weather,’ said the shorter of the two men, the one with the gun in his pocket, as the garage doors slid open.
‘Like all things, you can be certain it will pass,’ his companion replied. As they stepped into the shelter of the garage, he released the catch on his umbrella, shook off the rain and placed it against the wall.
The first thing that Gastal saw was a line of cars: a green 356 Porsche roadster, the VW still wet from its outing, a large 4X4 Cherokee Chief and, furthest away, parked beside a well-equipped workbench, the long, low, unmistakable lines of a Daimler limousine. He felt a beat of satisfaction. There, for certain, was the car that Alam Haggar had seen near Valentine’s workshop. But no tinted windows. In that regard, Haggar had been lying.
‘Would you mind waiting a moment?’ asked the taller of the two men. He gave the same cold smile he’d put on when he’d tapped on Gastal’s car window. ‘I will phone to let Mademoiselle Cabrille know that you have arrived.’
Gastal spread his hands. ‘Of course, not a problem,’ he said, and wandered down the slope of the garage to take a closer look at the soft-top Porsche. It was this incline that had concealed the far wall of the garage, a long panel of glass running from floor to ceiling and giving on to a landscaped garden spreading out beyond it. A hundred metres to the right he could see the terraces of Maison Cabrille and to his left, beyond the azure glow of a swimming pool, what must have been the lodge. He was putting his hands up against the glass to cut out the interior reflection when he saw the man who’d gone to call Virginie Cabrille coming back in his direction. He turned and gestured to the view and the cars. ‘Beautiful. Just beautiful,’ he said.
‘ “A man should so live that his happiness shall depend as little as possible on external things”,’ the umbrella man replied.
Gastal frowned. ‘Say again?’
‘Epictetus, first century AD,’ said a voice beside him.
Gastal turned. Once again the smaller of the two men had appeared from nowhere. He gave a smile, and shook his head as though, really, Gastal should have known about Epictetus. ‘He was a Greek philosopher,’ the man continued. ‘Born a slave, became a Stoic. He taught us, among other things, that suffering arises from trying to control what cannot be controlled. Taddeus is a great fan. Reads him all the time. Really a very clever gentleman, Epictetus . . . and my brother too.’
That was when Gastal glimpsed the brother’s open hand slicing down towards his neck.
He didn’t feel the blow, saw only blackness as he crumpled between their feet.
Tuesday
17 November
92
IT WAS SHORTLY AFTER MIDNIGHT when the Gendarmerie Maritime’s coastguard cutter P.60 slid out of Port de Corbière, passed the Lave beacon and took up a heading of two-three-five degrees, bearing south-west into the Golfe du Lion.
Just a few hours earlier Jacquot, standing at Gérard Torne’s desk, had contacted Solange Bonnefoy and told her what he had found out and what he wanted. She in turn had contacted the Préfet Maritime in Toulon, finally tracking him down to a sixtieth-birthday dinner party along the coast at Le Lavandou. Whatever she had said to him over the phone had clearly worked. Permission to proceed with action had been granted. The Gendarmerie Maritime was at Madame’s disposal.
There were four of them up in the P.60’s wheelhouse – Jacquot and Marie-Ange in standard-issue life-jackets, and the cutter’s helmsman, Willi, feet planted apart, hands on the wheel, eyes flicking between compass bearing, radar and the windscreen, its glass panels swept clear of rain and spattering sea-spray by four elbowed wipers. Behind Willi, the P.60’s commander, Léo Chabran, rode out the incoming swells from the comfort of his skipper’s chair. He was tall and well-built, with broad shoulders and a strong hard face. His skin was tanned from sea and sun and his eyes glittered like chips of grey flint. He wore regulation blue serge trousers tucked into polished lace-up black boots and a thick grey polo-neck sweater that made him look, Jacquot thought, like a U-boat commander. The sleeves had been pushed back to just below his elbows. There was a large black-faced chronometer on his left wrist, and on the top of his right forearm a small tattoo put there so long ago and so softened by a pelt of black hair that its shape was difficult to make out, no more than a pale blue bruise. Sitting in his skipper’s chair, he looked at home in the wheelhouse, comfortable and confident with command, the kind of man, Jacquot suspected, who was easy to like.
Certainly Salette had liked him, enough not to argue when Chabran had told them that he could only take two passengers. He had been briefed before Jacquot and Marie-Ange boarded – a seek and search, a motor yacht called Léonie, possible kidnapping – but Jacquot had filled him in on the details. He’d listened intently then nodded his head. He understood; he would do what he could.
Up at the wheel, Willi leant sideways for the throttles, easing them forward a notch or two. As the cutter increased its speed, ploughing through a westerly chop past the twinkling coastal lights of La Vesse and Niolon, Jacquot reached for a handhold.
‘It will take some time to reach her,’ explained Chabran. ‘If the weather were behind us, we would make better headway, but it’s not.’
‘How long?’ asked Jacquot.
Chabran spread his hands – big strong hands Marie-Ange noted.
‘Two hours certainly,’ he replied, checking his watch. ‘Maybe a little longer.’
‘What’s the procedure when we reach her?’
Chabran gave a small shrug. ‘Let us wait and see what happens. Right now she is close to shipping lanes in and out of Fos-Martigues. I will keep to the coast then turn towards her. If they see us on radar, which they might, we will be following a path taken by other vessels. There will be no suspicion, I hope. Then we close on them, fast. If they stay within territorial waters – which is where they are right now – we make a simple approach, ask permission to board. A drugs search maybe?’
‘What if she makes a run for it?’ asked Marie-Ange.
‘We are faster, mademoiselle. And we also have the advantage of a small 50-mm canon on our bow, pour encourager. And out at sea, who can say what happens?’
He smiled at her.
She smiled back.
Standing so close to Marie-Ange, elbows touching as the cutter rose and fell, Jacquot noticed a small flush rise up into her neck. He looked at Chabran’s hands. His left hand. No ring.
‘It will get a little bumpier when we pass Méjean, and the wheelhouse is not a comfortable place,’ Chabran continued. ‘You are welcome
to stay, of course. But maybe for now you should get below. There’s coffee, something to eat if you’re hungry. Just ask one of the boys. And if you want to get some rest, there are crew cabins aft. Dry and clean but very noisy. If anything happens, I’ll let you know. But for now . . .’ He nodded at Jacquot, gave Marie-Ange another smile.
93
‘MY, MY, BUT YOU’RE A fat little fellow.’
Gastal opened his eyes, blinked, and felt a dull ache on the side of his neck. The next thing he registered was a prickling, sweaty heat. All over his body. All over his skin. It was then that he realised he was naked. And restrained. His arms had been secured by leather bracelets to a beam of wood above his head, and his legs similarly spread and secured by the ankles to another beam beneath his feet. It was, he realised, a crucifixion of the most exposed and obscene kind.
‘Such a tubby little man . . .’ the voice continued. Soft and teasing and gentle. A woman’s voice. Coming from behind him.
Gastal looked around as far as he could, but he could see no one, just varnished brick walls, a polished concrete floor, a fabric-covered door and a double line of tiny spotlights set into what appeared to be a padded ceiling. The padding looked like foam-rubber insulation of some sort. He raised his eyes and tried to focus on it, beyond the lights. Or soundproofing, maybe. One or the other. And then he saw, with a sudden chill of understanding, why it might be soundproofing. Against the wall to his left stood two wide cabinets, doors open, the first fitted with a range of shackles and restraints, chains and collars, the other with whips and canes and straps and switches displayed like cues racked in a snooker hall.
But that wasn’t all. On his right was a wheeled hospital trolley with two metal shelves, covered in a selection of shiny chrome instruments, and beside it what looked like a large leather trunk, lid open, shadowy interior filled with wired clips, callipers, and what looked suspiciously like the defibrillator paddles he had seen paramedics use. More ominous still was a small drain in the middle of the floor, and a reel of coiled hose by the door.
He was, he realised, in a torture chamber. Despite the heat he felt his balls contract.
‘And, oh, what a tiny little bite you have,’ came the voice again, and this time the folded leather tip of a riding crop flicked out from behind him and smacked against the head of his penis.
Wincing Gastal looked over his right shoulder and saw her, Virginie Cabrille, her jet-black hair gelled back from her forehead, furrowed with the thin tracks of a comb, her face bare of makeup, angled, severe. She was wearing penny loafers, a pair of blue silk slacks, a jumper with a matching cardigan slung over her shoulders, and a single strand of pearls at her throat. She had the look of a schoolteacher – a headmistress he decided, and a headmistress in a not very happy frame of mind. She came round the side of the beams and walked past him, flexing the crop between her hands, turning to give him a stern look before disappearing behind him once more.
‘I don’t know what you think you’re doing . . .’ began Gastal, but he was cut short by a vicious swipe of the riding crop across his dimpled buttocks. He let out a bellow of shock and pain and felt himself sway between the beams.
She came round to face him again, stood in front of him, put her hands on her hips and smiled. The riding crop swung from her wrist. But she wasn’t looking at his face.
‘Ah, there we are, petit,’ she cooed. ‘Come out to play, have we? You liked that didn’t you?’
Despite the shivering pulse of fear that Gastal felt, there was now another pulse, altogether warmer, and more visible, that had started to flood through his body.
And there was nothing he could do about it.
Absolutely nothing.
Naked. Spread like that . . .
Despite himself, his body, if not his mind, was starting to respond.
‘So tell me,’ said Virginie, now tapping the riding crop against her leg, ‘wasn’t it enough to gate-crash my father’s funeral? Did you have to come snooping round here as well? And alone? My, my, but you are a brave little soldier, aren’t you?’
‘I’m here for the girl,’ he replied, making his voice as strong and authoritative as he could, despite the state he found himself in.
‘And what girl would that be?’ she asked, with a slim teasing smile.
‘You know very well. Elodie Lafour.’
‘Ah yes, such a pretty little thing. And such a loss.’
‘Loss?’
‘Of course. Because I’m going to kill her. I have what I need – something to prove that I have her – but now . . . now she really is of no further use. In fact, why don’t I do it right this minute? So you can listen in.’
Virginie put down the crop on the trolley and went behind him again. He heard her pick up a phone and punch in just two numbers – internal, he thought.
‘Tomas, call Mili. Tell him we don’t need the cargo any more. Just weight it and drop it overboard . . . That’s right. Good.’
She put down the phone, and came back to stand in front of him. ‘There, you see? Easy.’ Then she picked up her crop again and pushed its hooped tip against the top of his penis.
He could feel a springiness. Crop and cock alike.
But she didn’t seem impressed. ‘Not much to play with, is there?’ she observed. ‘Mais alors, I think we can come up with something, don’t you?’
‘This is madness,’ spluttered Gastal. ‘I’m a policeman. A Chief Inspector. You can’t do this.’
‘Oh, but I can, Monsieur Flic,’ she said, and, with a lashing backhand, laid the riding crop across his chest, sharply enough to leave a long red welt between his breasts. ‘And I most certainly will.’
94
JACQUOT WOKE WITH A START, surprised he’d even slept. Down in what passed for a galley – a narrow wooden table, equally narrow banquettes and a ribbed bulkhead devoid of any decoration save lengths of thickly lagged pipes – he and Marie-Ange had been served coffee, eaten some warm baguette sandwiches and, lulled by the close warmth of the room and the lateness of the hour, had promptly dozed off like commuters on a home-bound train. Marie-Ange still had her eyes closed, a wedge of spare cushion pushed between her and the bulkhead. It was astonishing that either of them had got any sleep at all. The hum and whine of the P.60’s engine and the distant thump-thump . . . thump as the cutter’s prow beat through the sea sent a pulse of power shivering through the ship. Their plates rattled on the wooden table, the surface of their coffee rippled. Everything throbbed. But still they’d slept.
Not that Jacquot had woken by himself. It had been Willi, from the wheelhouse, even now leaning across to tap Marie-Ange’s shoulder.
‘Skipper says we’re about four nautical miles off, and thought you should come topside. I’ll get some coffee brought up,’ he said and stepped through the companionway.
Up on the bridge everything was in darkness save for a pale blue glow from the instrument panel. Chabran was at the wheel, riding the chop, wipers jerking across the windscreen, the sea-spray shifted from head-on to hit them from the side now. Despite his size and the cramped quarters of the wheelhouse, he had a swift, easy grace, reaching out to Marie-Ange as she came up from below and a swell caught her off-balance.
As he guided her to the skipper’s chair and let go of her wrist, the most extraordinary thought entered her head: If I lick him, he’ll taste of the sea. The very idea of it unbalanced her as much as the swell.
‘You’ve killed the deck lights,’ said Jacquot, looking through the windscreen. The last time he’d been in the wheelhouse he’d been able to see the prows cutting through the water, and the tarpaulin-covered shape of the 50-mm canon.
Chabran checked his watch. ‘Thirty minutes ago. I didn’t want to alert our friends.’
‘Won’t they have radar?’ asked Marie-Ange, still trying to recover herself.
‘If they’re watching it they’ll have a searchlight on us any time now,’ replied Chabran coolly. ‘But I don’t think they are. It’s past three in the mo
rning. Even at sea people get tired, and lazy.’
‘Where are they?’ asked Jacquot, peering through the windscreen.
‘You’ll need glasses,’ Chabran replied, pointing to a pair of binocu -lars hanging by the door. ‘The swell’s high and they’re running stern on to us. Not much of a target, but you should be able to see them.’
Wedging himself against the bulkhead to counter the jarring and screwing the binoculars tight into his eyes, Jacquot tried to make out something in the blackness ahead. There was no moon, no stars, just a spray of white, like snow, streaking past his line of vision. But gradually a certain form came to the darkness. The P.60’s bows breaking through the swell, cresting wave-tops coming in from their right, and there, a blurring flash of orange lights like the lit tip of a cigarette. Clamping his elbows to his sides to steady the binoculars, he finally located the lights, lost them, found them again, adjusted the focus and settled on a half-dozen dancing gold points the size of nail-heads.
Jacquot felt someone nudge his arm. It was Willi with a thermos and a cup. Chabran and Marie-Ange already had theirs. ‘Coffee, monsieur?’
‘Thank you, that’d be great,’ said Jacquot. Putting down the binocu -lars he took the mug and held it out as Willi poured. The smell was unmistakable. Not just coffee. He caught Marie-Ange’s smile.
‘It’s a cold night,’ said Chabran, sipping his brew. ‘And late, and we’ll need our wits about us, so I’ve . . . adapted our coffee, P.60- style. Had Willi add some Calva. The British may have their rum but we have something altogether better, wouldn’t you agree? Le vrai esprit de l’océan, n’est-ce pas?’
Jacquot grinned. He’d been right. Easy to like. Exactly his kind of man.
Chabran raised his mug and they toasted one another.
‘So,’ he continued, surrendering the helm to Willi with a few brief instructions before getting down to business, ‘some ground rules, s’il vous plaît.’ The playful expression turned hard now and serious. ‘I must remind you that I am skipper of this ship, and I am in command. You will both do exactly what I say, at all times, immediately and without argument. There must be no misunderstandings about this. We are at sea, the weather is up, and it is dangerous out there. I hope you agree?’
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