He was locking the car when Jacquot came up to him. He turned with a startled, apprehensive look, as though Jacquot were some loan shark’s heavy come to collect a debt, or, more likely, an aggrieved husband dropping by for a chat.
‘Albert Garbachon? Al?’
‘Oui, c’est moi. Et vous?’
Jacquot flashed his badge, looked the man over. Late twenties, tall and lanky, with narrow shoulders, thin arms and a solid tyre of fat over the top of his jeans. He looked like an athlete out of training, gone to seed. His hair was black and hung over his eyes in a curling fringe, and on one side of his neck, in the open collar of his polo shirt, was a slanting oval bruise – you could almost see the teeth marks.
‘Been in the wars?’ asked Jacquot, nodding at the bruise as Brunet joined them.
‘So? What’s it to you?’ Garbachon replied, rubbing the side of his neck against the collar of his shirt, as though the movement might somehow remove the blemish.
‘The person you were with. This her?’ cut in Brunet, showing him the photo.
Garbachon gave it a look, nodded.
From the house came a woman’s voice.
‘Albert, c’est toi?’
‘Oui, Maman, j’arrive. Un moment.’ He turned back to them.
‘We’ve been waiting for you,’ said Jacquot.
‘Been out. Up in the hills,’ he said, and a slow smile curled over his lips.
Jacquot glanced into the Mercedes. A travel rug lay crumpled on the back seat. With his mother at home, and his passenger unlikely to invite him into her house, it wasn’t difficult to work out what Albert Garbachon had been up to in there.
‘You ever pick her up before?’ he asked.
Garbachon gave another smirk and shook his head.
‘First time,’ he replied, hard pressed to keep the swagger out of his voice. First time and he scores. Dinner to boot. ‘But she’s booked me for later. A round-trip to Marseilles.’
‘You got an address? Where you picked her up, dropped her off?’
‘Up near Aurons. On the St-Croix road.’
‘House name? Number?’
‘She was waiting for me at the side of the road.’
‘Any houses close by?’
‘A few. Up there it’s hard to tell.’ Garbachon gave a shrug. ‘You just glimpse the odd roof, back off the road, that’s it. Probably one of those.’
‘Sounds like you’re going to have to come with us then,’ said Jacquot, glancing at his watch. ‘Better tell your mother.’
73
WITH AL GARBACHON IN THE back seat providing directions, and the two squad cars a safe distance behind them, Jacquot took the Aurons road and drove up into the Pélissanne hills, a series of limestone bluffs and craggy ridges rising above the treeline, the road a dusty single track winding through the woods. It was the same road that Jacquot and Brunet had taken that very morning, only this time they were taking it the other way.
Coming round a steep, sharp bend that had had Jacquot clashing the gears that morning, Garbachon pointed ahead.
‘Up there, by those cypresses. That’s where I picked her up. And dropped her too.’
Without stopping Jacquot drove past, glancing to his right. As far as he could see there was a slope beyond the trees, a hidden gully-like depression dropping away from the road. There could have been a dozen houses down there, and you’d never have known about it. Twenty metres further on they passed an opening to the right, just about wide enough to take a car, and then, on the other side of the road, a second opening on the left. Both clearly led to unseen houses, but in which one were the Manichella sisters living? And in which one would he find Claudine and Midou? If they were there at all.
‘Any ideas?’ asked Brunet, turning round to Garbachon. ‘When you dropped her back here, did you see which direction she took?’
The cabbie shook his head.
‘I just stopped by the cypresses, like she told me, and she got out. That’s it. I drove off, checked the rear-view mirror, and there she was, right where I dropped her, watching me go. I didn’t see where she went after that.’
‘Then we’ll have to check both sides,’ replied Jacquot, waiting for the next bend before pulling in to what looked like the remains of an old quarry where all three cars could be easily parked. Five minutes later the two squad cars pulled in beside them and Jacquot told them what they were going to do.
‘The house on the right first. If it’s clear we’ll head down to the cypresses. It’ll be one or the other. You,’ he said, turning to Garbachon. ‘You stay here and watch the cars, compris?’
Checking their guns and lowering the volume on their radios, Jacquot, Brunet and the four képis set off down the road, slipping under the cover of the trees at the first opportunity. Thanks to the loud buzzing of insects their progress through the sloping woods and tinder dry leaf litter was less noisy than it might have been, and pretty soon they were huddled behind some rocks on the edge of the first property. It was an old country mas with ivy spreading across the walls, blue shutters and a solid wood door. There was no car visible in the driveway and no sign of life save for the warm scent of a barbecue.
‘Spread out through the trees and keep me covered,’ said Jacquot, drawing his gun from its holster and checking the breech. He flicked off the safety and, stepping from the trees, he made for the nearest part of the building, moving quickly, keeping low in case anyone was watching. Slowly, carefully, he made his way round the side of the house, peeping through the windows, hoping to see the sisters before they saw him. He was close to the back of the house when a man’s voice rang out.
‘Here! What are you up to? What do you think you’re doing?’
Even if he hadn’t been speaking it, Jacquot would have known that the man coming out of the undergrowth buttoning the flies of his shorts was English. He wore a blue Chelsea football shirt, short socks and sandals, his face and arms and legs as red as a plum tomato. The house was clearly a holiday rental and the man coming towards him, wiping the fingers of one hand on his shirt and brandishing a set of barbecue tongs in the other, was well within his rights to ask who the hell Jacquot was. When he saw the gun, however, he faltered, started to back away, but Jacquot slipped it into its belt holster and, straightening up from a crouch, pulled his police badge from his pocket.
‘Chief Inspector Daniel Jacquot, Cavaillon Regional Crime Squad,’ he said, in English. ‘And you are?’
‘Bill Somers,’ said the man. ‘And that’s my wife, Pauline, and the kids.’
Jacquot turned to see a woman in her mid-forties, more browned by the sun than reddened like her husband. She was dressed in a blue swimsuit and matching sarong, straw hat and plastic flip-flops, and had appeared from round the back of the house. She was carrying a breadboard, a carving knife and baguette. Two young boys, seven or eight, also dressed in blue Chelsea strip, peeped out from behind her, eyes wide. Jacquot wondered whether they’d seen the gun.
‘Monsieur Somers, I am so sorry for this . . . intrusion.’ He looked back to the trees where he had left Brunet and the képis and waved them out. Somers, his wife and kids watched in astonishment as the five men appeared from the trees and came towards them.
‘What’s going on then?’
Taking Somers’ arm, Jacquot led him over to his wife, introduced himself once again, apologised for any inconvenience and said that he was looking for two women, one tall, one short, mid forties, late thirties, called Manichella.
‘Don’t know their names, but that’ll likely be them across the road,’ said Mrs Somers. ‘Keep to themselves, they do. And no one else up here.’
‘Boot-face and Gina, we call them,’ said Somers. ‘That’s Gina Lollobrigida, see? Looks just like her, she does. When she was younger, of course.’
‘How long have they been there?’ asked Jacquot.
‘Here when we arrived,’ said Mrs Somers. ‘We thought they lived there. Locals. Being French and all. Went round at the start of the holiday, jus
t to say “bonjour”, but it was clear they didn’t appreciate the friendly visit.’
‘Never been back,’ said her husband. ‘See them every now and again, driving past, but that’s it.’
‘You happen to recall the car they drive?’
‘Black VW. Beat-up old thing,’ replied Somers, looking past Jacquot at Brunet and the uniformed képis. ‘So what they been up to then? Something big, by the look of you lot hiding in the trees.’
‘Drugs,’ said Jacquot. ‘We had a report that they were selling drugs.’
‘Oh, drugs, is it?’ said Somers, clearly disappointed. ‘Like being back in London, eh, Paulie?’ He chuckled. ‘Place is heaving with them back there. Here too, by the sound of it. You can’t go anywhere . . .’
‘And have you see them recently, Monsieur Somers? Madame?’
‘Last night. Late. We was out on the porch, Paulie and me, and we heard their car pull in, doors slamming. Wasn’t a VW, though. Different engine sound. You can tell those old VWs. Wheezy, aren’t they?’
‘Around midnight?’
‘Thereabouts. Bit later maybe. You’re on holiday, you don’t check your watch too much.’
‘And today?’
‘This afternoon,’ said Somers’s wife, not wanting to be left out. ‘I was coming back from town and there was this taxi pulled over. One of them getting in. Gina, I think it was. Couple of hours later the cab was back. Didn’t see it, but heard it.’
Jacquot took this in, nodded.
‘Well, thank you for your help, Monsieur, Madame. And I am so sorry for the mix up. It seems we have the wrong house.’
Pauline caught his eye and smiled coyly.
‘Gave me quite a start, you did.’
‘Again, I can only apologise, Madame. But for now, I would be most grateful if you would stay here, near the house. Please, under no circumstances, leave the property. Just . . . stay in your garden and enjoy your barbecue. Either I or one of my men will drop by later, so that you’ll know it’s safe.’
And with that, he gave Mrs Somers a small bow, smiled at her husband and followed Brunet and the képis round to the front of the house.
74
‘IT’S TIME TO MARK THEM,’ said Marita to her sister.
They were sitting at the terrace table, cases packed and left by the front door. Marita had a glass of whisky, Marina a rum and Coke. She had just mashed out a cigarette and was blowing a cone of grey smoke into the sky. Her hair was still wet from dying it back to black.
For the two sisters there was just one final job to do. And then it was over.
‘What time is the driver coming back?’ asked Marita, finishing the last of her whisky.
‘I told him midnight,’ replied Marina.
Marita glanced at the clock in the kitchen. A little after nine. She nodded.
‘Plenty of time,’ she said. ‘Are you ready?’
‘Ready,’ replied Marina.
Getting up from the table, they reached for their Berettas and fixed silencers to the muzzles. Marita did the job swiftly, but Marina was not so slick.
‘It looks so easy in the films,’ she said, trying to line up the correct end of the silencer with the tip of the muzzle. Two steady hands just didn’t seem to be enough.
Marita sighed. She was about to take the gun and do it for her when the join and twist action was successfully negotiated.
‘Don’t forget the marker pen,’ she said, and led the way back through the kitchen.
Though it was still light outside, just a few pin-prick stars starting to show, the interior of the house was dark and gloomy, the door leading to the basement lost in shadow beneath the staircase. Marita unlocked it, reached for the light switch and started down the stairs, Marina closing the door behind her, juggling gun and marker pen.
The basement occupied just half of the ground floor area, where the slope of the land allowed sufficient headroom to make it habitable. In years gone by, livestock had been accommodated there – goats, a cow or two, and horses for the plough. Now its floor had been levelled and a thin concrete skin laid over bare earth, the low-ceilinged space divided into three rooms leading off a short passage. On the left side of this passage were two doors – to a boiler and utility room, and to a smaller space almost completely filled by a large deep-freeze cabinet. The third door, standing on the right of the passageway, was the one that Marita now opened, stooping just a little so she didn’t bang her head on the doorframe, and reaching for the light switch. Marina had no such trouble.
The room was long and narrow and lit by a single neon tube. An old kitchen dresser had been placed along one wall and a workbench on the other. The shelves of the dresser were packed with glass jars filled with nails, screws, all sorts of rusting bits and pieces, old tin boxes and tilting flowerpot towers. On the workbench was a clamp-vice, a blade grinder and a small rotary saw, the wall above it a pinboard panel racked with tools. Although the basement had a concrete floor the smell of damp earth was still strong, the cellar’s stone walls flaking with old distemper, its ceiling hung with dust-thickened hammocked spider webs.
At the far end of the room, past the dresser and the workbench, were the two women, Claudine and Midou. They were bound by duct tape to two kitchen chairs, facing away from each other, arms secured behind their backs, wrists heavily taped. As a precaution, to prevent them working on their bindings, their fingertips had also been taped. It looked as though they were wearing silver gloves.
As the door opened and the light flickered on, both women turned their heads to watch Marita and Marina come in. It was only the second time the sisters had come down to see them. On the first occasion, Marita had brought some buttered bread and water. She’d removed the tape from their mouths and fed them herself, one after the other, allowing them choking gulps of water from a tipped jug. Then she’d re-taped their mouths, switched off the light and locked the door. The second time the two sisters had come down together, with a slop bucket. While Marina held a gun on Midou, Claudine was cut loose and encouraged to take advantage of this, with a single warning that if she did anything foolish her daughter would be shot.
Stiff from being bound in a chair for so long, with headaches from the Dyethelaspurane still gently thumping, and certain in the knowledge that these two women would do exactly what they said without the least scruple or delay, neither Claudine nor Midou had done anything to annoy their captors. Meekly they had used the bucket, been given more water, then been re-tied and left alone in the darkness again.
In much the same way that they had accomplished the slop bucket visit, Marina now held a gun to Midou’s head while her sister cut away the tape holding Claudine’s arms and ankles to the chair, helped her to her feet and led her to the far wall. Turning her back to this so that she was facing down the length of the room, Marita then tied her hands in front of her with the end of a length of rope hanging down from a metal hook. Taking the other end of the rope, Marita hauled in the slack through the hook until Claudine’s arms were raised straight above her head, the silken sleeves of her ao dai falling past her elbows. As her weight tautened the rope, Marita tied it off on a bracket fixed to the wall, leaving Claudine with two options: she could either keep her feet flat on the floor leaving her arms stretched painfully above her head, or stand on tiptoes to ease the weight from her elbows, wrists and shoulders. Whichever option she chose, she remained powerless to do anything more, like a writhing snake held by the tail, a wild, panicked expression in her eyes as she watched Marita repeat the operation with her daughter – another hook, another length of rope, hauling the arms upwards – trying to speak through the duct tape but managing only tearful whimpers of protest.
‘You mark for Taddeus,’ said Marita, when the two women were secured, side by side. ‘And I’ll do Tomas.’
Pulling the cap off the marker pen, Marina knelt in front of Claudine and, licking her lips in concentration, drew a single cross on her crumpled, dirty ao dai, just above the left knee, adding two more
crosses to her arm and shoulder, a final cross drawn just a few centimetres above Claudine’s right eyebrow.
When she had finished she handed the pen to Marita and watched as her sister marked out the corresponding wounds on Midou that had brought down their brother Tomas.
Four crosses on one of the women, three on the other.
And then it was done.
The two sisters stepped away, Marina going back to the workbench and picking up her gun. Checking the mechanism with a gentle but business-like snick-snick she waited for Marita to join her.
In a minute there would be blood. Marina could feel the excitement, almost shivering with the pulse of power.
‘Are you ready?’ asked Marita, coming to stand beside her.
Marina took a deep, steadying breath.
‘Oh, yes,’ she replied, and raised the gun in both hands to take aim.
75
JACQUOT WAS RATTLED. HE WAS also tired, more than a little frightened and, for the first time he could remember, running short on confidence. What made it worse was not that they’d targeted the wrong house, but the way the Englishman, Somers, had come from nowhere, taken him so completely by surprise. If it had been the right house and those barbecue tongs had been a knife, an axe, a gun, the game would have been over. That basic mistake, that moment of carelessness, had really thrown him.
But he was angry too, a low, simmering agitation that made him grit his teeth and narrow his eyes, and try hard not to acknowledge his beating heart but think instead of all the things he might do to the Manichella sisters and Virginie Cabrille if anything – anything at all – happened to Claudine and Midou. He was certain they were there, in the second house, and that closeness, coupled with his inability to break down the door immediately, right now, without any further delay, and free them, fed his anger. Equally nourishing was the horrible possibility that they might not be there, might have been hidden elsewhere, and were even now dead or dying.
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