by Chris Ewan
‘It looked exactly the same this morning,’ Trent said. ‘There’s nothing new.’
Alain didn’t respond. Beads of sweat clung to his nose and chin and eyelashes. He did nothing to wipe them away.
‘We should get back,’ Trent told him, dusting his hands clean. He could feel the grit beneath his fingernails. The same muck that had lodged there when he’d buried the chauffeur. ‘The others will be wondering where we are.’
‘What about back here?’
Alain was gesturing with the Ruger to the bank of loose rubble and boulders at the base of the rock shelf that loomed above them.
‘No.’ Trent’s voice was sharp and Alain swivelled, confusion twisting his brow.
Trent jerked his thumb back the way they’d come. ‘They’d have no view down to the Peugeot. See?’
Alain raised himself up on his toes and peered downwards. He frowned some more, then glanced longingly at the area where Serge’s body lay. Could he sense something, Trent wondered? Was some instinct drawing Alain towards the corpse?
‘Let’s go,’ Trent said. He moved closer and snatched the package from Alain’s grip. ‘Come on. We’re wasting time.’
* * *
Back in the one-room apartment in Marseilles, the young man doodled with his pencil on the notepad in front of him. The hand not doing the doodling was supporting his chin. His elbow was propped on the tabletop. To the left of his elbow was the digital camera. Every so often, when the young man couldn’t resist any longer, he’d let go of his pencil and power up the camera and stare at the images he’d captured.
His stomach flipped whenever he contemplated the scene of Trent and the guy at the café. But when he toggled to the next shot he felt stabs of confusion and fear.
Until this morning, he’d assumed that he was the only one watching Trent but he’d been wrong. There’d been someone else. He’d been parked a short distance further along the quay, in a silver off-road vehicle with smoked-glass windows.
The young man had paid no attention to the vehicle at first. Then the driver’s window had powered down and a man had leaned his thick forearm on the sill and raised a camera with a telephoto lens to his eye. The lens had been pointed towards the café table where Trent was deep in conversation, and before the young man had paused to consider his actions, he’d snatched a hasty shot of the man in the car.
His angle had been bad and the image couldn’t tell him a great deal. He could see that the man was wearing a white, short-sleeved linen shirt, and that his hair was clipped very close to his scalp, army-style. The young man had been afraid to take another photograph. He’d been scared the man in the car would notice him. And within seconds, it was too late anyway because the man had ducked his head back into his vehicle, his window had shuffled upwards and he’d pulled out into the stream of traffic.
It was only once he’d started to drive away that the young man thought to take a picture of his number plate. But by then a sightseeing bus had closed up behind him and the plate was obscured.
The young man hated himself for his mistake. It made him feel queasy to dwell on it. And yet staring at the photograph of the man leaning out of the car window was a kind of torture he found it hard to resist.
Finally, though, when the jagged pains in his chest became too much and the walls of his room seemed to shuffle inwards and crowd around his shoulders, he’d flick a button and switch out of feedback mode. Then he’d take a deep breath and prop the camera on the windowsill and move it from side to side, up and down, until he had a perfect shot of the pale blue front door to Trent’s apartment. He’d zoom in. He’d zoom back out again. In and out, forwards and backwards, like he was attached to the door handle by some kind of elastic bungee.
But for now the young man simply doodled and stared out the window at the street scene below. Nothing was moving. Nothing was happening. But that didn’t mean he would stop watching. He couldn’t afford to miss something vital. Not now. Not ever again.
Chapter Thirty
The package lay on the blotter in the middle of the desk beside the telephone and the recording equipment. Alain approached it with a knife he’d fetched from the kitchen. He was wearing a pair of yellow rubber household gloves. His idea. A way of preserving potential evidence. Trent wasn’t too concerned with forensics or future investigations. He was focused on the now. On getting Jérôme back alive. He watched closely from the opposite side of the desk. Stephanie and Philippe faced one another at either end.
The parcel seemed to have grown in size and significance now that it was about to be opened. The polystyrene was a brilliant white against the burgundy blotter and the cherry wood. It throbbed with menace, the brown parcel tape wrapped tight as a tourniquet.
Alain placed one hand on top of the box to steady it, looked up at the others, then pierced the brown tape with the tip of the knife. The blade was thin and very sharp. He made quick work of slicing right around the middle of the box, turning it carefully until he returned to where he’d started.
He set the knife down beside the box and took a moment to collect himself. Then, very carefully, he lifted the lid clear.
Trent saw what he’d been anticipating right away. His reaction was contained. It was different for the others. It took them a moment to process what they were looking at. Philippe was the first to respond. He swore and covered his eyes. Alain wheeled away, dropping the lid. Stephanie shrieked and gripped fistfuls of his shirt, burying her face in his chest.
Trent took a moment to absorb their behaviour. The way Stephanie had turned to Alain interested him in particular. The bodyguard had wrapped his big arm around her and was hugging her tight, smoothing his hand up and down the silk sleeve of her blouse. He didn’t seem uneasy about it. There was a familiarity to the pose. It didn’t strike Trent as the first time Alain had comforted her that way.
Philippe noticed it, too. He lowered his hand from his eyes until his fingers were spread, clawlike, around his open mouth. He wasn’t looking at the box. He was staring at his father’s bodyguard and his stepmother, lip curled, as if repulsed.
Trent turned his attention to the contents of the parcel. There was a lot of blood inside. It was dark and thick and oily, and it had settled in a pool perhaps half an inch deep at the bottom of a rectangular crevice that had been sculpted out of the base and lined with some kind of plastic film. The blood had spread around in transit. The parcel had been turned this way and that and the blood had swirled with it, coating the interior.
There was something resting in the blood. It was pale and curled and caked in the greasy fluid. Trent bent down to it. He reached out with his index finger and prodded it. No doubt in Trent’s mind. It was an ear.
‘What are you doing?’ Stephanie demanded. She turned her face away, burrowing into Alain. ‘Leave it alone.’
Philippe swallowed thickly. ‘I’m going to be sick.’
But Trent ignored their complaints. He dipped his finger and thumb in the blood and lifted the ear out of the shallow trough. Bloody juices slid and dripped down.
‘Relax,’ he told them. ‘It’s a fake.’
He shook the ear, feeling the flex of the flesh-coloured rubber. He gathered it in both hands and smoothed his thumb over the reverse. Felt something sticking out in relief. A manufacturer’s logo. He cleared it some more, then angled it so that Stephanie could see.
She released her grip on Alain’s shirt and gradually stepped away from him. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. She looked appalled but fascinated.
‘It was a trick?’ Philippe asked.
‘An illusion.’ Trent raised a bloody finger to his mouth. He sucked on it. ‘Tomato ketchup and olive oil.’ He smacked his lips. ‘That would be my guess.’
‘These people are monsters.’
‘No,’ Trent said. ‘They’re worse than that.’
He meant it, too. He’d built his career tussling with gangs just like Xavier’s. He’d seen all the wicked scams they employed, all the
underhand tactics. He’d witnessed the harrowing effects of kidnappings on victims and families. In Trent’s opinion, it was one of the most heinous crimes anybody could commit.
And yet, he’d been willing to stoop just as low, maybe even further. He reminded himself that the difference between what he’d planned to do to Jérôme and the actions of somebody like Xavier was all in the motive. He wasn’t interested in money. He wasn’t driven by greed. He wanted answers. A resolution. A way, if it came to it, of bidding goodbye to Aimée and the baby she was carrying.
But in moments like this, seeing the shock and bewilderment and utter disgust on Stephanie’s face, he found himself wondering if that was really enough.
‘I don’t understand this.’ Stephanie looked from Trent to Philippe and back again. ‘It’s sick.’
‘It’s a ploy. Another tactic. That’s all.’
Alain moved closer. He poked the fake ear Trent was holding. ‘It undermines them,’ he said. ‘We know it’s not real. They didn’t hurt Jérôme.’
‘Not yet, maybe. But this is a warning. A threat. And believe me, I’ve seen with my own eyes that they’re capable of carrying it through. Don’t fall into the trap of thinking they’re goofing around. This might look like something you’d find in a joke shop but the message behind it isn’t funny.’ He paused. His words reminded him of something. ‘Check the lid,’ he said.
Alain grabbed it and lifted it in his hand, breaking the adhesion between the surface of the desk and the sticky overlap of the sliced parcel tape. A dark red imprint had been left behind on the lacquered desktop.
Alain peered inside the lid, then recoiled and groaned. He paced over to a brushed stainless-steel bin in the corner of the room. Tilting the lid above the bin, he removed a cotton handkerchief from his pocket and used it to scoop out the glutinous ooze.
‘There’s something here.’ He used a corner of the handkerchief for grip. The object resisted for a moment before tearing free. It was a small plastic bag sealed with tape.
‘Open it.’
Alain dispensed with the soaked handkerchief and set the lid of the polystyrene box down on the floor.
‘Pass me the knife.’
Trent made a fist around the handle and carried it across to him. He could feel his scalp tighten and shrink. He itched all over, like fire ants were scurrying beneath his skin. His pulse throbbed behind his eyes and he watched closely as Alain pierced the plastic bag with the blade and dipped his gloved fingers inside. He removed a square of white paper.
‘Spread it on the desk,’ Trent told him.
Alain added the remains of the plastic bag to the bin and wiped the worst of the fake blood from his other hand. Then he returned to Stephanie’s side and unfolded the paper. A sheet of lightweight card fell out. It fluttered downwards, turning over and over like a tumbling coin. One side was smooth and pale. The reverse was tacky and multi-coloured. A photograph.
It fell onto the desk face down. Alain turned it upright for them all to see. The shot showed Jérôme sitting in a chair in his tuxedo trousers and sweat-stained dress shirt. His hands were behind him, almost certainly bound. There was a red stain on the front of his shirt. He appeared to have a bloody, split lip, and there was a sickly, greenish cast to his skin. His right eye was puffed up and closed almost to a slit, the area around it a puckered, blackened mess.
A man in a green army jacket and a ski mask was standing beside him. The man was gripping a knuckle-full of Jérôme’s hair and he was yanking his head back and to one side, exposing his bulging neck. In his other hand, the man clenched a hunting knife with a curved, serrated blade that he pressed against the base of Jérôme’s ear, as if he planned to saw it from his skull.
Stephanie gasped and covered her mouth.
‘Animals,’ Philippe muttered.
But Trent, though breathless, felt relieved. This was what he’d been waiting for. He wanted them scared. He needed them unbalanced. It would make them so much easier to sway.
Alain was busy straightening out the sheet of paper that had accompanied the photograph. It was typical office stock. He smoothed it flat with the back of his fingers, smearing it with a faint pinkish trace of the counterfeit blood.
NEXT TIME IT WILL BE REAL. PAY US THE MONEY. EMAIL [email protected] WHEN YOU HAVE THE CASH. YOU HAVE 48 HOURS OR WE CUT HIM AND SEND HIM HOME TO YOU IN PIECES.
Chapter Thirty-one
Trent endured the silence in the room. He waited for Stephanie to express sympathy for Jérôme. He glanced at Philippe, anticipating anger or distress. He listened keenly for the first sign that Alain was about to seize control and suggest what their next move might be. But he didn’t hear a word. Nobody spoke. The photograph and the threatening note seemed to have sapped them completely. Where was their outrage, Trent wanted to know? Where was their terror?
It got so he couldn’t take it any more. He told them all they should leave the study and take some time to collect their thoughts. He explained that they were in charge of the timetable for the next two days. Another call from Xavier was unlikely. The gang wouldn’t be in touch again until they received an email to the account Xavier had set up, or the family failed to meet his deadline. He told them missing the deadline wasn’t an option. This was their opportunity to take command. The best way of doing that was to come up with a ransom sum they were willing to pay. It had to be sizeable enough to tempt the gang into an exchange, but the gang would need to understand it was a one-time-only payment. Trent’s feeling was that they needed to add something to the insurance payout. The question was how much.
Philippe left first. He headed out the door leading into the glazed corridor with a casual, easy stride, as if he was contemplating a late afternoon swim. Stephanie went second. She offered up a meek smile, then exited by the door that connected with her dance studio.
Only Alain remained. He peeled off his rubber gloves. Tossed them in the bin.
‘Can we trace this email account?’ he asked, rubbing the skin on the back of his hands.
Trent shook his head. ‘I don’t see how. Not without calling in some major resources. The official kind. And it’s not an account Xavier will check regularly. You can be certain our response will be the only email he’ll ever read on it. And he can log in whenever and wherever he likes. He can use any number of internet cafés or computer stores. He could break into somebody’s house and use their home PC.’
Alain weighed his response. He rested two fingers on the very edge of the photograph. Shunted it towards Trent.
‘Do you think this is staged?’
‘Almost certainly.’
‘And his injuries? Are they real?’
Trent looked up from the photograph. So at least somebody had been thinking straight.
‘If it’s not real now,’ he said, ‘it’ll be that way soon.’
Alain inclined his head towards one of the doors. ‘Don’t you think you should have told them?’
‘Don’t you think you should have?’
The skin around Alain’s eyes tightened into crow’s feet. He rubbed the stubble on his chin. Trent sensed he was on the verge of telling him something. But the something wouldn’t come. He still didn’t trust Trent enough.
‘How much more would we need to add to the insurance payout?’ he asked.
‘Another half-million.’ Trent shrugged. ‘Three million in total. Maybe more.’
Alain lowered his face to the photograph. He stared at it closely. It was hard to tell what he was looking for. Perhaps he was seeking reassurance that Jérôme’s injuries were fake. Perhaps he was trying to assess the level of intent behind the eyes of the man in the ski mask. Or maybe he was asking himself if he could stand to see worse. Maybe he was preparing himself for the possibility of never seeing Jérôme again.
‘Would you like me to go and collect my thoughts, too?’ Alain asked. ‘And leave you alone in this room again?’
‘No, you can stay. I’m going to be replaying the recording of Xavier
. There may be something we missed.’
‘You already know there won’t be.’
‘It’s worth trying. What else am I going to do?’
Alain held his gaze a beat too long, then looked around the study, as if he was searching for the answer to the question Trent had posed. Finally, he grunted and made for the door.
‘Where are you going?’ Trent called after him.
‘To think about money. We’re going to need to pay, I think, whether I believe you or not.’
* * *
Trent kept his word. He settled in Jérôme’s leather chair and played back the recording. Right from the start, the bass rumble of Xavier’s voice seemed to resonate with some kind of primal fear receptor in his nervous system. An icy, numbing chill coursed through him. The guy had a way of reaching deep inside you and planting something cold and dark in your gut. He sounded like a character from a childhood horror story. He sounded like your worst nightmare made flesh. A guy whose threats seemed as real and as tangible as the breath in your lungs.
Trent listened to the recording right the way through. Then he listened a second time. There was nothing there for him except a profound sense of unease. No slip he could spot. No background noise. Xavier could have been talking from a sound booth or an underground bunker. Trent listened for traffic. He listened for voices. He heard nothing except that strangely penetrative growl. The peculiar way it had of clawing at the insides of your brain like something trapped and scrabbling to get out.
But why wasn’t it affecting the others in the same way?
He stopped the playback. Sped forwards.
‘Don’t lie to me. Put the negotiator on.’
He jumped forwards again.
‘There is a package. A gift. You will find it in the negotiator’s car.’
The negotiator. The owner of that voice knew who he was. He knew that he was involved. And he’d beaten him once before. He’d gotten away with the Roux’s money. Led a gang that had killed Girard’s colleague and lover. Maybe pulled the trigger himself.