‘I told you, I don’t know.’
‘Who smacked up your face, or did you deliberately walk into a door?’
‘Why are you talking like this?’
‘What relationship do you have to Benz?’
‘None, other than what I already told you.’
‘That he attended Bagatelle parties?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why did you leave Dan’s place?’
‘I got scared. I thought someone was watching the house.’
‘How? It’s right on the main road and there are double yellows running down it.’
She frowned with exasperation. ‘People on foot, I saw the same two men walking by.’
I wasn’t buying. There were too many superfluous men mixed up in this and most remained unconnected to the main event. ‘So you fled, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘With your laptop?’
‘Yes.’
‘If you were scared, wouldn’t you just get out and make a run for it?’
‘My laptop contains my life.’
‘So where is it?’
‘In my car. I will fetch it if you don’t believe me.’ She spoke with a smile, as if I was entirely unreasonable and she was humouring me.
‘Where were you on 19 May last year?’
‘Last year?’
‘I’ll refresh your memory. You stayed in the New Forest, allegedly to watch a polo match.’
‘Why ask when you already know the answer? And what of it?’
I was clearly going too easy on her because a feisty note had crept back into her tone. ‘A man was shot and killed the following day.’
‘This is ridiculous. You can’t think –’
‘How long have you run Simon Faber?’
‘I have never heard of this man. Who is he?’
‘It’s a company, damn it. Your property company. It owns a building that was used to imprison an intelligence officer. Seven years ago, the deeds from a house, a stone’s throw from here, were transferred to you.’
‘Quoi? I have no idea what you are talking about. My only companies are Bagatelle and the lifestyle businesses.’
‘So you deny everything?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘You deny an association with one very dead China Hayes?’
‘I already explained this to you.’
‘You deny killing Lars Pallenberg?’
‘Me, kill?’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘How could you even think it?’
I glanced down, searched for her trademark bag. It wasn’t with her. Maybe it was in her car. She carried a smaller bag, in red leather, to match her gloves. I wondered what lay inside.
I looked at her with contempt. I’d saved the best for last. ‘For how long had you been Billy Franke’s lover?’
‘You are talking shit, you know that? I have never been this man’s lover. I do not know who he is.’
Looking up into her midnight eyes, fury boiled inside me. ‘Tell me one thing, just one thing. No, make it two,’ I said, changing my mind, knowing how easy it is to sell a single truth. ‘Give me two facts that are genuine and true.’
She bit her lower lip. Her eyes filmed over. She shook – genuinely anguished, it seemed. ‘D’accord, you win.’ Her voice was soft. She ran her fingers through her long dark hair. Expecting her to pull out a weapon, I reached inside my jacket.
Looking me dead in the eye she said, ‘My mother is alive and she gave me away.’
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
As fragile as a dragonfly, a thought flittered in and flittered back out again. It was not the answer I’d sought or expected.
‘Sad, but is it relevant?’
‘I do not know.’ She took a deep swallow of brandy. ‘But I know she hates me.’
I changed position. For me, like most men I’d ever dealt with, relationships and families were minefields, alien territory, not the kind of stuff with which to engage. My own set-up was dysfunctional, and I had no real concept of what counted for normal. The mention of emotions gave me the creeps and made me want to run fast in the opposite direction. I guess it would be fair to say that I’m a fully paid up member of the ‘failure to commit’ club. All this aside, I couldn’t see how Simone’s difficulty with her mother had any bearing on mayhem and murder. Unless …
‘Your mother’s name is Justine, isn’t it?’
She tipped her head to one side, as if bewildered and impressed and confused. ‘Yes.’
‘Justine Franke?’
‘Justine Smart. But she is married now so who knows?’
I drained my cup. Things were getting properly messy. ‘Tell me what happened from the beginning, when you were a kid.’
‘My mother gave me away when I was a baby. There were no papers. It was not a legal adoption.’
‘How old was Justine?’
‘Fifteen. My grandparents organised it, or so she said.’
‘And you were given to a French couple, right?’
She nodded.
‘Why did they do that?’
She gave a weak smile. ‘You’d have to ask her.’
I hiked one shoulder. Maybe I would. ‘Go on.’
‘The Fabrons were already quite old when they took me on. They brought me up as their own.’
‘They loved you?’
‘Of course.’ She put her glass down and reached for the coffee pot, topped up my cup and poured out some for herself. ‘When they died I was still a young woman and, without a family, I decided to look for my blood mother. It took me several years. Life was hard. My adoptive parents were not rich and I was on my own.’
‘You had to fend for yourself?’
Her bottom lip trembled. ‘Yes.’
‘And, eventually, you traced Justine?’
Simone nodded.
‘And she agreed to meet?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where?’
‘In London.’
‘It’s a big place.’
‘A café in Richmond,’ she said. ‘It did not go well.’
‘I imagine it must have been hard for her. Not that unusual, I guess.’
She leant forward, fixed me with her dark brown eyes. ‘Threatening to kill your firstborn is not unusual?’
I maintained my stare, didn’t so much as flicker. I’d met Justine once by accident. This did not square with my impression of her. But what did I know? ‘What did she say, exactly?’
‘She said I was a mistake from the past, that she had three daughters and a good life and wanted to forget I ever existed.’
‘Hard, but it happens,’ I said.
‘She told me that she was married to the most powerful criminal in Britain and that he had connections. She threatened me.’ Tears sprang to Simone’s eyes. Her hand shook a little. She cleared her throat. ‘She said that if I came anywhere near her or her family, made any contact, she only had to give the word and I’d be killed.’
‘Did you know who she was married to?’
‘I found out.’
‘But you said that you’d never heard of him.’
‘Non,’ she said, fire in her eyes, ‘You asked me if I knew a guy by name and I told you I did not.’
The distinction was so fine I thought it a smokescreen. ‘Did you ever meet her husband?’
‘Aren’t you listening to me?’
‘I am, but there are too many gaps.’
‘I never met him,’ she said emphatically.
‘Then how is it that Franke Holdings is inextricably linked to Simon Faber, and Simon Faber owns the old family home? Your home, your company,’ I reiterated, in case she didn’t get it the first time.
‘How many more times? It is not my company. Your information is false, or faked.’
I sat back, thought about it. I’d no reason to doubt Jat’s technical proficiency, but I supposed it was possible that we’d fallen prey to misinformation. I took out my phone. The way Simone flinched you’d think I’d pulled a gun.
‘I
t’s okay. I’m not turning you in. I need to check something out.’ I contacted Jat and outlined my thinking.
‘You mean the information is bogus, is that what you’re saying?’ he said.
‘Is it possible?’
‘Well, yeah, I guess.’ He sounded doubtful.
‘Could China have been coerced to enter it and leave a false trail?’
‘He could, but there’s a simpler solution.’
Inspiration struck. ‘Someone hijacked the email address and sent phoney information?’
‘Backdoor technology,’ Jat said. ‘It’s a means to access information on a computer and bypass the normal security systems. Once in, you can take control.’
‘So, for example, an email may look as if it’s come from someone, but it hasn’t.’
‘That’s the gist of it.’
‘And those emails would go to the recipient, in this case Simone Fabron?’
‘Yes. They either went direct to her or they could have gone straight into her spam folder, in which case she wouldn’t necessarily receive them.’
‘Okay. And the company?’
‘Nothing fake about it.’
‘I take your point, but is the name the only thing that ties it to Fabron?’
‘That’s all I have right now.’
‘Can you see if there’s a connection between Faber and Justine Smart or Justine Franke? Better still, is Justine Franke part of the umbrella organisation, Franke Holdings?’
‘Jesus, Hex, I’m not MI5.’
‘You’re right, scrap it.’ I signed off, looked directly at Simone and brightened. ‘Looks like I’ve been cherchez-ing the wrong femme.’
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
In overdrive, I called McCallen. Never around when I needed her most, her phone went to the answering service. My eyes on Simone, I left a message to the effect that Justine Franke needed to be paid serious attention and an urgent visit in Spain.
A group of walkers came into the bar followed by a woman and a man dressed in business garb. Both wore wedding rings, only the furtive way in which they touched and talked made me think that they were not married to each other. I fleetingly wondered if they had kids. Made me think of Indie. I turned back to Simone.
‘Poor Indie,’ I said. ‘All her illusions will be shattered.’
‘Who?’
‘Your half-sister. She has no idea that your mother is quite so ruthless.’
‘You’re well informed.’
I met her eye. ‘Yes. Maybe you girls should get together. You can fill in the gaps for each other.’
Simone flicked a tight smile and cast around. ‘I need to freshen up.’
I directed her towards the ladies, caught her hand as she made to go. ‘I’m sorry for doubting you.’
She shrugged as if it were of no consequence.
‘You never said where you went after you left Dan’s,’ I said.
‘To the park.’
‘And returned later?’
‘Only to collect my car. Can I go now?’ she said, brittle.
I let her hand drop. ‘Sure.’
I checked my phone for calls – there were none – and warmed myself by the fire, my gaze directed to the window and clear view of the car park. I thought about Justine, the devoted wife and mother, the woman who apparently knew everything there was to know about Billy’s nefarious activities, always had. Together they had built a life on lies. I tried out the scenario for size. It went something like this:
In those weeks on the run, Billy had channelled as much of his capital out of the UK as possible, the company already set up as a method to prevent the Financial Intelligence Unit from getting their claws into his assets. With me on his tail, he’d known that his survival was at risk and all through that torrid time Justine had become increasingly unhappy, worried and vengeful. When it came to it, she had his contacts in her pocket, his know-how and years of experience. How easy to send out a false trail and frame the daughter she never wanted. With that kind of cunning and several major competitors dead, Mrs Franke could be back in business within the year.
‘Excuse me.’
I looked into the eyes of the female half of the business couple. She held out a woman’s red leather glove to me. ‘I think your friend dropped this.’
I took it. ‘Kind of you to pick it up, thanks.’
‘No problem.’
I moved to put it on the table and stopped. A dark stain clung to the fingers. It didn’t look like blood. I lifted the leather to my nose, caught the fragrance of expensive French perfume overlaying the unmistakable smoky tang of something else, and pocketed it. Simone emerged a few moments later.
‘I need to eat. I’m famished.’
‘Suits me.’
We ordered sandwiches and more coffee. Conversation was stilted and unfocused, the magic we once shared gone. Afterwards, I paid and came up with a great idea.
‘How would you like to the see the house you apparently own?’
Simone tipped back her head and laughed. ‘I want nothing to do with it.’
‘Aren’t you a little bit curious? Come on, it might be fun.’
Her face clouded. ‘It might be dangerous. What if my mother is there?’
‘Why would she be? She’s in Spain.’
‘You have spoken to her?’ Did I imagine a catch in her voice?
I shook my head. ‘I heard a rumour. Look,’ I said, taking her hand. ‘You’ll be with me. You’ll be perfectly safe. We can nail this thing together, once and for all. What do you say?’
She thought for a moment, then spoke loud and firm. ‘I say yes.’
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
We travelled in her car. My idea. I wanted her attention fixed on something other than me. I gave her directions and she nodded solemnly, as though taking it all in, and chattered about nothing in particular – unusual for her, a sign of nerves, perhaps. Me, I was silent. I had ten minutes, tops, to plan how to play it. Surprise and superior knowledge had always been my strongest cards, but I was right out of Kings and Queens. The Joker in the pack had never figured in my vocabulary. You get in. You do the job. And off you fuck.
My difficulty was self-restraint. In the old days, I wouldn’t have hesitated to remove a problem. True, I had neutralised the Russian in brutal self-defence as recently as a couple of weeks ago. Didn’t make it right, but it was an easier position to defend. There was a difference, to my mind, between murdering to survive and murdering for gain. Would I really do it all again? Was I going to undo over a year of living a decent life? Indecision dogged me and indecision was a killer. I had no more than fifteen minutes in which to make up my mind. Whatever I decided would dictate the rest of my life.
I yawned, stretched, leant back into the soft leather.
‘You are tired?’
‘Bushed.’
I said nothing more. To her credit, she paused at a crossroads, made a pantomime of not knowing which route to take.
‘Straight on,’ I said. ‘Over there.’ I pointed at the gated drive. Transferred from Billy Franke, benefactor and philanthropist, to Simon Faber, charity, all above board, I didn’t doubt.
‘Looks like electronic gates,’ she said. ‘How do we get in?’
I looked across at her, my grin wolfish. ‘We push them. They’re open, trust me.’
She hiked an eyebrow and we both climbed out of the car. I took one gate, she the other. She could have taken me then. But I didn’t think she would. There was something of the showman in the way she operated. Highly strung, she adored the thrill, the drama and theatre. And she didn’t have her special bag.
We climbed back in and Simone drove on. I paid no attention to the familiar rural landmarks, the lake or the dovecot or the green expanse of fields that flanked the long and winding drive. I had other preoccupations. This was no longer about Simone and me. This was about the sort of man I was. Was I still a taker? And if I wasn’t, what was the alternative? Where did my future lie? Did I have one?
&n
bsp; She pulled up outside the black and white farmhouse, Billy’s old lair. We both climbed out. The afternoon weather had taken a turn for the worst – the leaden sky was raw and joyless. I looked out across overgrown lawns to the stable block, the site of so much carnage more than a year ago.
‘You have been here before?’ She looked playful, with mischief in her eyes.
‘I have, many times.’
Simone looked up at the house. ‘It looks a little rundown, don’t you think?’
She was right. An empty house deteriorates quickly, particularly in northern climates. The paintwork needed attention. Plaster around the front door flaked. Several windows on the upper storey looked rotten and unstable. ‘Be good as new with TLC.’
She skipped up the steps across a patio and towards a porch, her long coat wrapped around her.
‘Go inside,’ I said, close behind. ‘It’s open.’
‘But what about –’
‘Justine?’ I interjected. ‘I already told you. Nothing to worry about.’
‘And her heavies?’
‘The people who roughed up your room?’
‘Exactly. They might be lying in wait.’ As soon as the words left her mouth, she realised her mistake. She covered it well enough, but the rare flash of colour that fled across her high cheekbones gave her away. How could she know that her room had been roughed up? She’d only collected her car, or so she’d said.
The heavy oak door emitted a gasp of pain as she pushed it open. I followed on her heels and into a collection of hollow rooms with chequerboard walls of pale and dark colour denoting where dressers and bookcases and other large pieces of furniture had once stood. The air smelt damp and musty and old. I fancied that it was overlaid with gunpowder, smoke and lubricant, the same odour that had emanated from Simone’s glove.
‘What a fantastic staircase,’ she said, eyes alive. Linking her arm tightly through mine, she drew me close. It was a classic move. I imagined the next. Simone taking a gun from her coat, pressing the muzzle next to my ribs, pulling the trigger. Shatter and burn.
‘Let’s explore.’ She propelled me forward and onto a wide run of six stairs, five flights in all, with elaborately carved newel posts and finials, the entire staircase created from a forest of seasoned oak. At one step per second, I calculated that I had thirty seconds to act.
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