The French Prize

by Cathryn Hein

  The industrial landscape gave way to craggy countryside. Heat hazed the shrivelled hills. They sped past Le Lac Bleu, past tiny vineyards and farmland, before converging back into the dense towns of the south, each kilometre bringing them inexorably closer to Marignane.

  Olivia wished he would say something, but like her, he seemed compelled to silence. The car’s air curdled with her churning thoughts. This was worse than when they had left the gîte. Back then, he had given her nothing, just a brief glimpse of torment hastily masked. It was easy to feel hate, easy to think only of herself. She had yet to peel back his veneer of stoicism, yet to touch the honourable, kind and compassionate man beneath.

  Rognes had changed everything. He’d granted her unlimited access to the archives, handed her his most treasured possession like a lover’s gift. But worse, in unguarded moments, he’d granted her access to himself. Like a fool, she’d weakened, mesmerised by what she’d seen. Her despondency and faltering faith had given way to optimism and anticipation. Then at lunch, as he touched her shoulder and felt her skin and murmured his soft words, she’d believed he’d caught her disease. That he had succumbed to his rush of want.

  How overwhelmed she had been. How stupid.

  And now, when she needed to hate him as she had done for that fleeting moment in the Clio, when she needed to sever herself from the memories of what she’d seen, what she felt, she couldn’t let go.

  The airport turnoff sign loomed in the distance. Olivia reached for the case and perched it on her knee. She unhooked the latches and opened the lid. Nestled in foam, the partially exposed riddle teasing her with its unsolved mystery, lay La Tasse.

  ‘I won’t leave it,’ she said, but in her heart, the words sounded wrong. A thought invaded, an unwelcome notion that made her chest tight and her jaw tense. Maybe it wasn’t La Tasse she couldn’t leave.

  ‘I know.’

  She stared at him. ‘Then why are you taking me to the airport?’

  ‘I’m not.’ He eyed her for a moment. ‘Not straight away.’

  ‘But you intend to.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She rested her eyes back on La Tasse, trying to work him out, and then it dawned on her. Before he could achieve anything, La Chanson du Chevalier Gris had to be uncovered and solved, and for that, he needed her.

  Despite her promise, she could refuse to help, but she wasn’t the only expert in the world. Others could be bought, and while none would have her depth of knowledge, eventually they would solve the riddle.

  Raimund would have his prize, while she would lose any chance of holding hers.

  In every way he had her trapped.

  The entrance to the airport came and went. Raimund stayed on the D9, but at the turnoff to Carry-le-Rouet he indicated and veered onto the coast road. La Tasse went back to the floor. She would not be saying goodbye.

  Not yet. Not ever.

  The Mediterranean glittered as though a giant had scattered it with sequins. Olivia admired the yachts bobbing in the marinas, the tanned sightseers promenading in the sun, and wished she could swap lives.

  Carry-le-Rouet gave way to the village of Sausset-les-Pins. Past the town centre, they climbed a small rise, hugging the coast. At the top, Raimund indicated again and pulled into a driveway, stopping in front of two solid timber gates set back from a high brick wall.

  He leaned out of the window and tapped a code into a panel set into the brickwork. The gate swung open. He put the car back into gear and drove through. In the side mirror, Olivia watched the gates swing closed. After a short climb, the Peugeot came to a rest, but the engine stayed running, the air conditioner whirring quietly.

  ‘This was my parents’ villa,’ he said, unclipping his seatbelt and twisting in the seat to look at her. ‘We’ll be safe here for a time.’

  She nodded, then stared out the side window at the luscious terraced garden stepping away towards the sea, resplendent with glossy ferns, rioting flowers and huge, shady trees.

  He brushed her hair away from her face. ‘Please, Olivia. Look at me.’

  She bit her lip. The tenderness in his voice sent her throat aching. She wanted to give way to tears but had no idea why. Perhaps relief had made her emotional.

  His hand strayed to her cheek, the knuckles gentle on her skin. For a few thudding heartbeats she savoured his touch, then she blinked and batted his hand away.

  Why was he acting like this? Pretending he cared when she knew damn well he didn’t.

  ‘Yes. You have every right to be angry. I should never have left you alone.’

  ‘It’s not that.’

  It wasn’t anything. Just a mess she’d made for herself, a tangle she couldn’t untie.

  She could feel him studying her in that way he had. Like a scientist analysing a creature squirming in a Petri dish, or a psychologist with a patient, interpreting the nuances of body language.

  Their breathing sounded loud in the confines of the car, as though they were both still recovering from the escape. But this wasn’t the breath of physical exertion. This was the breath of something else.

  When he spoke, his voice sounded husky, like it had in the archives that morning when he’d traced her tear with his thumb, when she’d been stupid with hope.

  ‘I would never hurt you, Olivia. Not intentionally.’

  She tore at the door handle and pushed it open, needing air, needing to escape the intimacy of the car. The seatbelt jerked her to a stop. Her fingers fumbled on the clasp until finally she was free.

  She stood on the driveway with her hands on her knees, hauling in lungfuls of hot summer air, her hair falling around her face in sweaty straggles. The sun burned like a brand, a punishment for her stupidity.

  Raimund grasped her shoulders, urging her upright. She couldn’t look at him, afraid of what she would see. False concern or worse, his indifferent mask. With both hands, he swept her hair from her face and cupped her jaw.

  There was no indifference, only sorrow.

  ‘You must understand. I made a promise. To Patrice. I must see it through.’

  ‘There are other ways to get revenge, Raimund. You could go to the police.’

  ‘There’s no evidence. The investigating magistrate believes Patrice was mixed up in the drug trade. It’s the only way he can account for what was done to him. Patrice’s blood was heavy with narcotics. Gaston’s doing. A way to control him as well as mislead the police into an easy explanation for his death.’

  ‘But you have the photographs.’

  Anguish tugged at the corners of his mouth. ‘No.’

  She opened her mouth to speak but he interjected.

  ‘I burned them.’

  ‘But why?’

  He let her go and half turned from her, his fingers digging into his brow. ‘I could not allow anyone to see Patrice like that.’

  Olivia swallowed. She didn’t want to know, but at the same time she had to. She had to understand what Raimund had seen to make him like this. To make him swear at his brother’s graveside he would destroy Durendal.

  ‘What happened to him?’

  He closed his eyes.

  ‘Please. Tell me. I need to know.’ She clutched her fingers to his chest, crumpling the soft cotton of his shirt. ‘I have to know why you want to destroy the very thing you’re meant to protect.’

  He pulled her hands away and held them. ‘Trust me, Olivia. This is something you do not want to know.’

  ‘Tell me, please.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Raimund —’

  He thrust her from him, angry with her interrogation. His fingers returned to his brow, digging as though he wanted to drill into his skull.

  ‘You want to know? You want to know what happened to Patrice? What torture he endured?’ His face crumpled with agony. ‘He was crucified, Olivia. Like Jesus Christ. Except he wasn’t the son of God, he was my brother, and the only faith he had to cling to was me.’

  He took a shuddering breath.

  ‘An
d I did not come.’

  CHAPTER

  10

  There was nothing she could say, nothing she could do, except hold him and pray that, in some small way, she could soothe him.

  They stood in the driveway in the blinding sun, hot stones burning heat through their shoes, sweat sticking their skin together. Sharing something inexpressible.

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ she whispered.

  He stroked her hair, as though the simple movement calmed him. A bird began to chatter, its voice muffled by the sound of the car’s compressor. The Peugeot doors were wide open, its overworked air conditioner losing the fight against heat.

  ‘I could have saved him.’

  ‘No you couldn’t have. By the time the photographs reached you, he would have been dead already. You know that.’

  He sighed and let her go. ‘I should never have involved you.’

  ‘Yes, you should.’ She touched his arm. ‘You need me, Raimund.’

  And he did. Not just for La Tasse, nor Durendal, but for the sake of his bleeding, stricken heart.

  He caressed her face, his mouth lifting in a tender half-smile. The sort of indulgent, humouring look a father would give a mildly wayward daughter, and then it was gone. His hand dropped.

  She had lost him again.

  ‘Come. It’s too hot for this and I have things to organise.’

  She watched him retrieve the case and chocolates and secure the car. On the surface he appeared as he usually did—granite-faced and in control—but his mouth was pressed firm, his jaw tight, as though he was holding something inside, something fighting to escape.

  He returned to her side, and to her surprise, took her hand and led her up the path to the house.

  ‘My parents were very self-indulgent. You’ll find the facilities more than pleasant.’

  Olivia wanted to ask what happened to them, but after Patrice she was too afraid. That they were dead she had already surmised. How and when would have to wait for another day.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ she said, and meant it.

  Instead of stopping at the front door, he followed a path around the side of the house and down some stairs into a sunken garden. At its centre lay an oblong pool, its waters protected from the elements by a high arched cover, similar to a greenhouse. The heavy teak outdoor furniture beside it had weathered almost silver, its timber crying out for oil.

  ‘A gardener and femme de ménage used to come once a week to ensure the house was cleaned and maintained,’ he said. ‘But they were Patrice’s responsibility, and I’m afraid he was what you call a very soft touch. Some things have not been attended to as they should. I have since dispensed with their services.’

  ‘He was probably too busy in the archives.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘I know I would be.’

  ‘Yes, but the study of history is your raison d’être. It’s what you are most passionate about.’

  He was right. She was passionate about history but that didn’t mean there wasn’t space in her life for more. The scholarly world had shown her how easy it was to become consumed by the past, isolated by study. That wasn’t her, no matter what he believed. She had a family she adored, friends she missed. The desire for love still beat in her heart.

  She might be determined to prove herself but not at the expense of everything that made her human.

  They descended another flight of steps into what appeared to be a small under-house wood cellar. The floor was dirt and littered with blown-in leaves. Hewn logs lined the stone walls in neat stacks, while above them, hanging from the joists, someone had once hung flowers to dry. The petals had been shed long ago, the foliage now overtaken with cobwebs.

  At the back of the cellar, tucked into a corner behind a pile of logs, was a squat steel door. Raimund halted at it and flipped open a shiny metal panel in the adjacent wall. A dull lamp glowed, casting shadows over his face. Olivia recognised the lens of a biometric scanner.

  ‘Don’t you have something as simple as a front-door key?’

  ‘Not with me. I was not expecting to come here. This is a back-up system.’

  The door clacked open. He hunched through the low entrance, switched on a light, then held out his hand for Olivia. Since their emotion-charged exchange in the driveway, he didn’t seem to want to let her go.

  Once they were both inside, he kicked the door closed and led her up a set of steep stairs to another door. Inserted in the wall was another control panel, this time with a keypad. He tapped in a series of numbers.

  ‘The house is fitted with motion sensors on all doors and windows with an independent system for the interior. They can be set together or separately. It’s not complete cover, but it will give us notice of any intruders and offer some chance for you to recover from your shock in peace. At least for a while.’

  ‘And for you, too.’

  The diode on the keypad turned green. Without replying, Raimund reached forward and tugged at an ornate iron handle. The door swung open onto a narrow, shelf-lined larder.

  There were few supplies—an assortment of Tetra Pak soups, three cartons of long-life milk, a clear plastic container filled with sugar, a vacuum pack of plunger coffee. The lower shelves were better stocked, although not with food. Several packets of candles, two torches, batteries, an old hurricane lantern, a portable stove and half a dozen butane gas canisters were lined up in neat rows, but what made Olivia stop was the broken open shotgun.

  He caught her alarm. ‘It’s for protection only.’

  ‘It’s yours?’

  ‘Yes.’ He eyed her. ‘You do not like guns.’

  ‘I don’t like what they can do.’

  ‘No. Neither do I.’

  She gave him a look. It was a strange comment from a soldier, but she understood what he meant.

  On her parents’ farm, guns were simply a tool, like a tractor or drenching gun. You used them when you had to. Perhaps the same could be said for their use in war.

  She tried to move forward, but his grip on her hand tightened. His expression had her catching her breath.

  ‘Do not hate me, Olivia.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  He let go of her hand and stared at the gun. ‘I think one day soon you will.’

  ‘That day won’t come.’

  ‘You are wrong. It will.’

  ‘Then you’re right,’ she said sadly, knowing in her heart he told the truth. That his promise to Patrice made it inevitable. ‘One day I might hate you. But perhaps I’ll find comfort in the knowledge that the betrayal of your ancestors will leave you hating yourself even more.’

  He had not been joking when he labelled his parents self-indulgent.

  The house was not only filled with expensive fittings and furniture, it smelled like a rich person’s house. The air was infused with the subtle perfume of not just cleanliness, but newness. A house whose owners changed decor often, who prided themselves on keeping up with the latest trends.

  After a short tour, and with his hand warm on her back, Raimund directed her up a sweeping, steel-banistered staircase to the second floor before opening the door of an enormous bedroom.

  Near the entrance, arranged around a steel-and-glass coffee table, sat a Mediterranean-blue sofa and two matching armchairs. Behind them lay a king-sized bed stripped to the bare mattress and flanked on either side by two steel-and-glass bedside tables.

  Olivia had never thought an unmade bed could ever look so inviting. She put her hand over her mouth and suppressed a yawn. Her nerves were still jangling, yet she felt exhausted, swamped, just as she had in the archives. Raimund had promised her sleep but she knew it would never come. There was too much to think about. Too many horrors to keep her awake.

  And she wanted to talk to Raimund. Properly.

  He left her, returning a few minutes later with an armful of fluffy blue towels and ducking past her into a walk-in robe, beckoning her to follow. She obeyed, her sandals sinking like she’d stepped onto a lush lawn.

  The robe w
as filled with plastic-draped clothes. On the floor, arranged in neat rows, were clear plastic shoe boxes. It was as though the Blancards had disappeared on an extended holiday, with everything carefully stored, awaiting for their return.

  At the end of the robe, resplendently white, was a full-sized ensuite bathroom complete with spa. Raimund placed the towels on its edge.

  ‘Patrice and my parents were very close. He could not bring himself to get rid of their clothes. It’s an issue I’ll address when this is over.’ He dug his hands in his pockets. ‘It’s some small compensation that they’re not alive to endure his death. I do not think they would have coped.’

  ‘They died.’ Olivia didn’t think it necessary to pose it as a question.

  ‘In a boating accident off Corsica eighteen months ago. The authorities assure me it was misadventure.’

  His tone indicated he hadn’t believed them.

  ‘Gaston?’

  He shrugged. ‘I do not know. Like Patrice, there’s no evidence to link him to their deaths.’ He pointed to the spa, changing the subject. ‘There’s a problem with the pump, but the shower is functional. You’ll find everything you need in the cupboards.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He stepped towards her and made a move as though he wanted to reach out, but then he steadied. ‘I promised you peace, Olivia. And you will have it. But first, I think a shower will help you feel better.’

  It did.

  The shower released a cascade like Niagara. Olivia stood under the waterfall soaping herself with vanilla-scented bath gel and washing her hair with expensive shampoo and conditioner, sluicing away the film of fear-induced sweat while trying not to think about Raimund.

  Instead, she thought of Gaston, the madman who had so easily seduced her with charm. Had he found them by chance, or had they been followed? It had to be by chance. Raimund would have sensed someone following. Until she had distracted him with her flirty sundress and happy chatter about home, he had been on alert, watching for danger. Protecting her as he had promised.