Dead Line

by Chris Ewan

  ‘Perhaps,’ Viktor said, more guarded now.

  ‘Think about it. Think about his hairstyle. His clothes. His skin tone. The way he moved his body.’

  Viktor gulped. He unzipped a pocket on the front of his hooded top. Reached his good hand inside. ‘I don’t need to remember. I have pictures.’

  Trent dropped the phone book and came around from behind the counter and watched as Viktor wiped the moisture from a compact digital camera. He powered the camera up. It was blue with a zoom lens that slid out and whirred as the aperture opened. A tiny screen on the back blinked to life. Viktor twirled a dial and prodded a couple of buttons, then passed the camera to Trent, an expectant look on his face.

  ‘This is him?’

  Viktor nodded.

  Trent was looking at an angled shot, taken from above, of a thin, hippyish guy at the side of a small green delivery van. The van had a floral motif on the side and the name Fleurs de Soleil in gold lettering in a stylised, cursive script. The guy had long brown hair tied into a ponytail, a rangy beard, and he was wearing a green fleece top.

  ‘This is good, Viktor,’ Trent said. ‘This is excellent.’ He tossed the camera back to Viktor. Ruffled the kid’s hair. ‘Wait here. I’m going to get some things together.’

  Trent didn’t take long. He didn’t want Viktor to become spooked or try to leave. He got changed very quickly, hauling on a pair of jeans, some socks and his desert boots, then fitting his shoulder holster over the vest he had on before buttoning a khaki shirt. He searched around in the base of the wardrobe for a canvas duffel bag he kept there. Carried the duffel into the bathroom and lifted his gloves out of the pool of water in the base of the tub and stuffed them inside the bag along with the shotgun. He steeled himself to enter the boxroom, doing his best not to look at the blood-spattered walls or Alain’s sorry corpse as he added ropes and cuffs, his torch and a serrated hunting knife to his stash. He located his Beretta and lifted up his shirt and slipped the pistol into the holster. He straightened his clothes, then closed the door on the room and inhaled deeply, as if cleaning his lungs. He moved through the living room into the kitchen and opened a drawer and fetched the Ruger and the spare cartridges, tossing them into his bag.

  ‘OK,’ he said, tightening the drawstring on the duffel. ‘We’re ready.’

  ‘For what?’ Viktor had been looking sickly already, but right now his skin was pallid and slack.

  ‘To find Xavier’s delivery man. To ask him some questions.’

  Trent hefted his bag of equipment. He advanced on the sofa. Placed a hand on Viktor’s damp shoulder. Partly a reassuring gesture, partly a way of digging his fingers into Viktor’s bony frame and lifting him to his feet. The kid’s knees almost buckled. Trent spun him round and flattened his hand on his back and steered him along the hallway. He opened the front door. Stopped abruptly.

  Stephanie Moreau was standing there, adjusting the fit of the blue polka-dot sundress she had on. Her sunglasses were large and round and dark. She was holding a clutch purse in front of her waist. A familiar red sports car blocked the road behind her, engine running.

  She must have got Trent’s address from Jérôme’s lawyer, too.

  ‘I have to talk to you.’ Her lips were pinched and her cheeks hollowed out. She flipped her sunglasses up on top of her head. Her eyes were intent, her gaze piercing.

  Trent guided Viktor past her and onto the flagstone pavement. He pulled his front door closed behind him as best he could.

  ‘Do you have a car?’ he asked Viktor.

  ‘It’s over there,’ he said, and pointed off towards the nursery.

  ‘Take this.’ Trent handed him the duffel. ‘Wait for me. I won’t be long.’

  Chapter Forty-seven

  ‘Won’t you invite me inside?’ Stephanie asked. Her fingers were digging into her purse.

  ‘Now’s not a good time.’

  ‘We have a right to know what’s happening.’ She was fighting hard to keep her voice under control. ‘We deserve that, at least.’

  Trent motioned with his chin towards where Philippe was leaning across the front passenger seat of his sports car, watching them through the side window, like a cab driver waiting on a fare. ‘Doesn’t look like your ride is planning to stick around for very long.’

  Stephanie clenched her purse even tighter.

  ‘Careful,’ Trent said. ‘You’ll break a nail.’

  ‘We’ve been waiting to hear from you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I tried calling. I left a message.’

  ‘I heard.’

  ‘Were you going to contact me?’

  ‘Not any time soon. Not if I could help it.’

  Now she looked ready to spit. She rammed her purse up beneath her arm, hugging it against her meagre chest. She leaned towards him from the hip, jabbing her finger, her nail like a painted blade.

  ‘You come into my home,’ she said, speaking through her teeth. ‘You judge me. Exclude me from this process. On what authority?’

  ‘My authority,’ Trent told her. ‘The authority Jérôme gave to me. He could have given it to you. He could have had it written into the contract he signed with my firm. But he chose not to. Now, why do you think that was?’

  Her face morphed into something sharp and sculpted for attack.

  ‘You don’t speak to me that way. I won’t allow it. I showed you the things he’s done to me. How he hurts me.’

  ‘Sure, you showed me. But don’t let’s kid ourselves. This is no romantic love triangle you’re caught up in with Philippe. Take yesterday. Your studio. You showed me more than just your bruises. It was deliberate. A choice. You would have shown me anything to get what you want. Done anything to get away from Jérôme. So go find someone who cares. I’m not paid to.’

  Trent began to move away. She snatched at his arm. Dug into his flesh with her nails.

  ‘Who’s that boy? Why is he with you?’

  Trent shook his head.

  ‘Where’s Alain?’

  This time, Trent met her glare with one of his own.

  ‘You must know,’ she said. She rocked to one side, assessing the front door to his apartment. The broken lock. ‘You must tell me.’

  He wrenched his arm free, skin tearing. ‘Oh, I’ll tell you. He was taken.’

  ‘Taken?’

  ‘Snatched. By Xavier’s gang. They took the money. Took Alain, also.’

  She inhaled sharply. Covered her mouth with her hand.

  ‘What will you do?’ she asked.

  ‘Find him. Then find Jérôme.’

  ‘But how? When?’

  He shook his head. Smiled a slow, hard smile. ‘You must really have looked something up on that stage,’ he told her. ‘I think you could make an audience believe just about anything you wanted them to.’

  Her lips crinkled and tightened. Her face was white, a hard blackness creeping into her eyes. ‘What will you do? Tell me. I have to know.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ He tossed his chin towards Philippe. ‘I wasn’t going to ask lover boy for any cash.’

  ‘You said yourself that we should be careful. That we shouldn’t provoke them.’

  ‘That was before. This is now.’

  She took a step closer. He could feel the vibrations coming off her. The pent-up rage.

  ‘You’ll come with us,’ she said, and just about resisted the urge to stamp her foot. ‘Right now. You’ll come and you’ll wait for them to call. You’ll tell us what to do.’

  ‘No, I’m done with that.’ Trent grabbed at her tensed biceps. He hauled her round and steered her towards Philippe’s car like a cop manhandling a suspect. He snatched open the low door. Pressed down on her shoulder, then the top of her head, forcing her inside. ‘You go home and sit by the phone in your husband’s study. Sit and watch the damn thing for as long as it takes. Spend some more of your time hoping they kill him. See what good it does you.’

  He slammed the door closed and stepped down off the paveme
nt into the street. Marched away across the sun-bleached square, beneath the plane trees, past the empty fountain.

  He found Viktor sitting behind the wheel of a black Volkswagen Golf. The exterior was smeared with dirt and sand and dried salt spray. The duffel bag was on the seat behind him.

  Viktor had changed his clothes. He was wearing a plaid shirt over beige cargo trousers. It didn’t look like the garments had been lying around in the car. The interior was clean and tidy. Trent guessed he’d called in to whichever apartment he’d been spying on him from to change out of his wet things.

  ‘Drive,’ Trent snarled. He clambered inside the Golf. ‘And tell me if they try to follow.’

  * * *

  Fleurs de Soleil was located at the corner of Rue Pavillon and Rue Paradis, just a short stroll from the Opéra where Trent had loitered, waiting for Jérôme and Stephanie, less than two days before. The shop fronted onto the threadbare grass of the Place du Général de Gaulle. An old fairground carousel was located at the far end of the square and Trent slowed his pace as he walked by.

  He didn’t know why he did it exactly. He knew it would hurt but it felt like a necessary pain – a way to cement his resolve. A group of young mothers had gathered beside the carousel to watch their children laugh and scream as they twirled round and round on painted horses and in gilded carriages. Each and every delighted yelp was a cruel torment for Trent – a reminder of the child he might never get to meet.

  He turned from the scene and walked on, crossing the street to the florist. It was clearly a high-end operation. The name of the store was stencilled in gold onto the windows in the same cursive font that Trent had seen on the side of the delivery van in Viktor’s photograph. A vibrant display of blooms pressed up against the glass and a number of extravagant bouquets and plants were fitted into tiered metal stands out front. Trent could smell the flowers and soaked dirt as he approached. The morning was dry and sunny but the pavement was damp. He supposed the plants had recently been topped up with water.

  The scent was much more intense when he stepped inside. The temperature was a couple of degrees cooler. He felt the air condense on his skin as he took a moment to adjust to the colourful surroundings.

  A trim, middle-aged woman in a green apron was standing behind a service counter. She was busy curling some lengths of white ribbon with a few deft strokes of a scissor blade. The ribbon had been tied around a bouquet of white roses wrapped in translucent pink cellophane. There were a dozen roses. Every stem was the exact same length. The flower heads were pristine.

  ‘Collecting or ordering?’ The woman had yet to look up from the ribbon. Trent was surprised that she’d even seen him. ‘If you’re picking up an order, that’s fine,’ she said, as if it wasn’t remotely fine and Trent should know as much. ‘If you want a bespoke bouquet, it’s going to have to be tomorrow.’

  ‘It’s neither,’ Trent replied.

  The woman paused. She peered up from behind a heavy fringe. Didn’t seem impressed by what she saw.

  ‘Well, speak up.’ She set the scissors down and fluffed the cellophane until she was content with its shape. Then she wiped her brow with the inside of her wrist. ‘I’m a little rushed today. What is it you want?’ Her eyes contracted. ‘You’re not trying to sell me something, are you? I have all the suppliers I need.’

  Trent raised a palm. ‘I’m just looking for someone.’

  She exhaled in a rush and set the flowers down on a table behind the counter where more bouquets were arranged. The shelves above the table were stocked with a rainbow supply of floral wires, twine and ribbon, a generous collection of green foam spheres and plenty of vases and aluminium tubs.

  ‘She’s not here,’ the woman said, sharply.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  For a moment, Trent’s heart stopped beating. Could she mean Aimée?

  ‘Her name’s Céline.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘She’s ill today. Or so she claims. And believe me, you’re not the first admirer to wander in and ask after her.’

  ‘No.’ Trent was beginning to lose patience. ‘That’s not why I’m here. I’m trying to find the man who delivers your flowers. Is he available? I need to speak to him.’

  The woman moved to her side and yanked a length of pale green cellophane out from a wall-mounted roll. She tugged down and sliced the sheet against a metal blade, then draped it carefully over the counter. She lunged behind Trent for a tub of lilies and began sorting through them.

  ‘Arnaud? Why are you looking for him?’

  ‘He delivered some flowers to my grandmother last week. It was a special day for her. The anniversary of her wedding to my late grandfather. Your driver was very kind. He helped her with a vase. I want to thank him.’

  The woman squinted at him. ‘Arnaud did this? You’re sure?’

  Trent nodded.

  ‘Doesn’t sound like Arnaud.’

  ‘Even so, I’d like to express my gratitude.’

  ‘Well, I can tell him if you like. What’s your grandmother’s name?’

  ‘I’d prefer to speak with him myself. I have something for him, you see. A small token. From my grandmother.’

  ‘And you don’t trust me?’ The woman shook her head roughly. Snatched at another stem for her display. ‘I should be offended but I don’t have the time for it. You’ll find him at the Prado market. My husband is covering his deliveries. If you see him, will you tell him that—’

  But when the woman glanced up, Trent had already left the shop.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  The market was busy. Not early-morning busy, but there were plenty of people around. Three o’clock. In another hour the traders would begin packing up for the day.

  Trent led Viktor through the crowds, scanning the colourful stalls that faced one another across the grubby strip of concrete. A backbeat of murmured conversation, traders’ enticements and scooter horns filled the air. Traffic streamed along Avenue du Prado behind the canopied stalls on Trent’s right. Somewhere beneath his feet, subway trains shuttled through blackened métro tunnels.

  There was a lot of merchandise on offer. Fake watches, plastic sunglasses, cheap jewellery and leather handbags; knock-off DVDs and second-hand console games; fresh ground spices, glistening olives and handmade cheeses. There were blue trays crammed with ice and gaping Mediterranean fish and limp, oily squid and squirming langoustines. There were grocery stalls with pyramid arrangements of sun-ripened fruits and bulbous vegetables.

  There were several flower stalls.

  Trent counted five before they found the one they were searching for. Most of the tubs and green plastic buckets were empty but the bouquets that remained were thick and generous, stuffed with roses and lilies, sunflowers, gerberas and gladioli. The gold-on-green sign above the stall featured the same flowing script that Trent had seen on the windows of the florist’s shop and the side of the delivery van: Fleurs de Soleil.

  Trent recognised Arnaud, the stringy guy with the long hair and the wispy beard, from the photograph Viktor had shown him. He had on a baggy blue T-shirt with a money belt slung low around his narrow waist, and he was busy wrapping a mixed bouquet in paper for a smiling, well-groomed young man in a business suit. The man was probably taking the bouquet home to his wife or girlfriend, Trent thought. He’d done the same thing for Aimée many times. Perhaps he’d even bought flowers from Arnaud.

  Viktor was standing still and staring. Trent grabbed him by the elbow and hauled him away. There was a street café a short distance ahead. Trent guided Viktor into a rubber-strung chair at a circular table with a view of the flower stall from behind the trunk of a pollarded tree. He signalled the waitress and ordered espressos. Then he walked to the newsstand close by and bought a copy of L’Équipe that he folded and placed on the table between them.

  ‘You’d make a terrible spy,’ Trent told Viktor. ‘Relax. Stop staring. He’s not going anywhere.’

  ‘But what do we do?’ Viktor’s face was tight and urgent. He seemed nervous
. Flighty.

  ‘We talk to him.’

  ‘When?’

  Trent tapped the table. Viktor had been staring again. ‘Later,’ he said. ‘For now, drink your coffee.’ The waitress approached their table and set the espressos down in front of them. She slipped the paper bill beneath a glass ashtray, her easy smile faltering as she spotted the scarred mess where Viktor’s thumb and finger had once been. She averted her eyes and moved away.

  Viktor lowered his hand onto his lap beneath the table, then scowled back across the street, around the tree trunk. ‘Do you think he’s one of them?’ he asked.

  ‘You tell me. He’s very thin. Did any of the guys who guarded you strike you that way?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Trent didn’t, either. He’d been comparing Arnaud’s build to the masked men who’d abducted Jérôme. It was possible he’d been one of them. Add an army surplus jacket and a ski mask and an assault rifle and it was conceivable that the guy would look a lot more imposing. But still not quite sturdy enough. And if he was involved in taking Jérôme, then it stood to reason that he’d be involved in guarding him, too. He wouldn’t be spending his days selling flowers.

  ‘Are you really just going to go over and talk to him?’ Viktor asked.

  ‘Right out in the open? With all these people around?’

  ‘Give it a while. It’ll quieten down.’

  ‘What if he refuses to tell you anything?’

  Trent raised his espresso to his lips. Sipped the bitter coffee. Truth was, he didn’t plan on giving the guy a choice. His Beretta was snug against his ribs, inside his shoulder holster. And he had the rest of his equipment in the duffel bag in Viktor’s car. It wouldn’t be so hard to make the guy come with them. A Beretta could be very persuasive. And once Trent had the guy somewhere remote, he could be very persuasive, too. He could make Arnaud tell him what he wanted to know just like he’d planned to make Jérôme talk.

  ‘So we just sit here?’ Viktor asked. ‘We just –’ he scratched the back of his head – ‘wait.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Trent told him.

  He was a patient man. It was an attribute he prided himself on.