by Rosie Dean
‘Merde!’ I’d never heard him swear before. ‘Of all the people, Vicki! You know what I think about him. Where’s he taken it?’
‘To his home, I imagine…’ My voice paled with uncertainty.
‘We’re going there, right now, to get it back. Viens!’ he turned towards the stairs and waited for me to move.
‘I’m not sure he’s there.’
‘Phone him!’
‘I tried earlier, I left a message but he hasn’t called back.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘You do remember where he lives, don’t you?’
‘Roughly.’
‘Good.’
*
Christophe could not believe Vicki’s naïveté. He’d learned that Daniel had never been top-drawer in the cabinet of journalism, family connections had smoothed the way for his career to continue. Rumour had it he was just biding his time until a bigger, juicier story came up to catapult him into the big-time. How convenient that he had access to the family art collection and now, through the photo album, the private life of Antoine de Castillon. A name that would mean little to a British audience but Keane had plenty of contacts in France.
Vicki sat in the passenger seat, politely offering directions, dithering slightly at junctions until finally, she said, ‘I do know it’s outside a town with a very ugly war memorial,’ after which, Christophe did a U-turn and headed straight for the location.
Lights were on at Connor’s house and Daniel’s car sat outside. Christophe parked behind it and switched off the engine.
‘Will you let me go in on my own,’ Vicki said, with a slight wobble in her voice. ‘It might be better.’
‘Of course not,’
‘Why?’
‘I’m sorry, Vicki, but my family’s privacy is more important to me than your pride. He may have fooled you but not me.’
‘He’s an art critic not a tabloid journalist. I’ve seen some of his cuttings.’ As the words tumbled out of her mouth, he noticed her eyes were glistening more than usual.
He didn’t need the complication of her muddled emotions. All the same, he drew a breath and softened his voice. ‘Please, Vicki, don’t challenge me on this. Let’s just get the album back.’
She shook her head and, to his surprise, hissed, ‘Shit! Why am I so stupid? Stupid, stupid, stupid!’
‘Let’s not do this, now, Vicki. Come on. I need you to get that album back. If he thinks he’s doing a favour for you, it should be easy. ’
She shook her head. ‘He isn’t.’
‘What?’
‘Doing me a favour. I didn’t give him the album. He took it without me knowing. Seems you’re right about his methods.’
Christophe slammed one hand on the steering wheel, shoved his door open with the other and headed up to the house. Moments later, as he hammered on the door, he felt Vicki’s hand on his arm. ‘Easy,’ she said. ‘Let’s just ask for it, nicely.’
‘He’s stolen my property. I don’t have to be nice.’
*
Why had I been born with a knack for screwing up? Was it karmic justice for a transgression in an earlier life? That’s what Isabelle might say. Shafted by Marc, taken in by Daniel and now on the receiving end of Christophe’s anger – though with some justification. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to worry about it right then, as the door swung open and Connor swayed in the hallway. He frowned at Christophe before spotting me. ‘Hello, gorgeous girl. Are you here for young Daniel?’
I pulled a smile and stepped in before he had chance to close the door. ‘Please. Is he in his room?’
‘Sure, go on up.’
I headed towards the stairs with Christophe close behind. I tapped on Daniel’s door but opened it without waiting. He was seated at the bureau, his laptop open. His look of surprise was switched, in an instant, to a phony smile.
‘Hello,’ he said, pulling down the lid of his laptop. Either he was working on a story about Christophe’s grandfather or surfing porn sites. If only it had been the latter.
I’d been considering what I might say all the way up the stairs but needn’t have bothered. Christophe steamed straight in with, ‘I want my grandfather’s photo album and anything else you’ve taken.’
Daniel pulled a wide-eyed face and shrugged. ‘What are you talking about?’
Above Christophe’s response I slammed the door for dramatic effect – an old teaching trick – and pushed past him. ‘Give it up Daniel, I know you’ve taken it. You were looking at it the other night and now it’s gone.’ I stared down into his face. His eyes didn’t flicker. I’d seen that look often enough on year nines, who equally had no scruples.
He gave a little snort of laughter. ‘You do remind me of Matron.’
‘The album,’ Christophe and I said in unison.
‘Why would I want your family album?’ he asked, glancing at Christophe. ‘I’m an art critic not a genealogist.’
‘Who knows why you do anything?’ Christophe said. ‘You’re a journalist who’ll stop at nothing to get a story.’
‘Really? I’m not sure you’re in a position to take the high ground on this, Dubois. Your family isn’t exactly the model of morality, is it?’
‘You have my property, and I want it back,’ he said through gritted teeth.
It was starting to feel like an episode of The Sopranos. I decided if they could keep on with the conflictual dialogue, I’d have chance to scan the room for stolen goods.
‘Sorry. Can’t help you,’ he said, but flinched when I lunged under the bureau to grab a package. It was only a fresh box of paper. ‘Happy now?’ he asked.
Christophe moved to the other side of him, rifling through some documents beside the laptop. ‘Crotte!’ He held up a sheaf of paper. ‘Not interested in genealogy? So what’s this?’
Daniel pulled a cock-eyed smile and shrugged. ‘Too late, Dubois. The cat’s out of the bag, I’m afraid.’
‘What cat?’ I said.
‘You’ll have to wait and see. I’d hate to spoil the surprise.’
Christophe began studying the papers in more detail. ‘Dorothea de Castillon was my grandmother. She was a wonderful woman. Why would you want to dig around in her life?’
‘A wonderful woman, indeed,’ Daniel nodded. ‘A woman wronged. A woman shamed by your grandfather’s smutty little affairs.’
‘That’s old news.’
‘Yes it is.’ There was a smirk on Daniel’s face I would have gladly swatted with a damp rag, if only I’d had one. And I don’t consider myself a violent woman.
Christophe carried on reading. An eerie weight of silence descended. Finally, a deep frown forged between his brows. He looked at Daniel who grinned, ‘Surprise!’
Christophe shook his head and backed away. ‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Too bad, Dubois. I’m afraid it’s true. The following pages will give you all the facts you need.’ He chuckled. ‘I was only looking for a story about stolen Russian paintings, and instead I came across something much more juicy.’
‘What is it?’ I squeaked.
‘Old Grandpa de Castillon wasn’t the only one playing away from home. It seems Grandma couldn’t keep her knickers on, either.’
Christophe seized Daniel by his shirt collar, swung him round and pinned him against the wall, his forearm rammed against Daniel’s throat.
‘No!’ I yelled, ‘Don’t kill him!’ which, in hindsight, may have been a bit over the top.
‘Where’s the album?’ he barked in Daniel’s face, which was not looking quite so smug under the force of Christophe’s anger. He didn’t attempt a reply so I began searching the room, discovering the album beneath his bed.
‘Here!’ I called, dragging it out.
Christophe glanced over. ‘Check they’re all in there. Check every page.’
I went through the contents; a mixture of monochrome and colour pictures. Some were official press shots but mostly they were domestic, family scenes. ‘They’re all here. No gaps.’
‘What else have you taken?’ he asked Daniel, who shook his head. ‘If I discover anything missing, it won’t be me coming back, I’ll send in the police. Capitaine Mathis is a very good client of mine. And he’s not too fond of journalists, either.’ This made Daniel’s lip curl. ‘And I’ll borrow your laptop, too. Vicki…?’
I nodded and disconnected the laptop from the plug socket. Then I gathered the papers up and piled everything onto the album.
‘You’re wasting your time,’ Daniel said through a restricted larynx. ‘All my research is backed up.’
‘Good,’ said Christophe. ‘More evidence.’ And he pushed himself off Daniel, who gave him an ineffectual shove. ‘Vicki, take those down to the car, please.’
I hesitated. I didn’t fancy leaving him there in case a punch-up ensued. Christophe must have read my tennis-match eyes moving from one testosterone fuelled male to the other.
‘Okay,’ he said and turned to Daniel. ‘You’re going to wait here until we’ve gone. And you’re not going to report your laptop stolen because it will be returned to you.’
‘You know, I could make this all go away. Couple of mill should do it.’
Christophe’s hand tightened on my arm but I don’t think he knew just how tight. ‘Would you like to put that in writing, too?’
‘We could discuss it.’
‘Yes. With a lawyer.’ Then he guided me out of the room. I could feel the heat coming off him and hear the breath chafing his lungs.
When we reached the bottom of the stairs, the television was on but there was no sign of Connor. We let ourselves out and hurried to the car. Behind us, I heard a window open and Daniel’s voice crowing, ‘Have a nice life, Vicki. I’m sure you’ll make a great art teacher.’
I stumbled forward as his words hit home. Christophe grabbed my arm to steady me and to prevent the spoils from our raid hitting the deck. We drove away quickly, heading in the opposite direction from the one we’d come in.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked.
‘To the château. The security’s better there.’
‘You think he’ll come after us?’
Christophe let out a huff of contempt. ‘No. Not him. But I don’t know what kind of people he mixes with.’
I thought of Connor, Jeanne and Raimond but couldn’t imagine any of them coming after us wielding a Smith & Wesson.
CHAPTER 23
The further away from the scene we drove, the more my body began to react. Adrenalin had been flushing through it as if my glands had sprung a leak. Muscles that had been on red-alert now began to relax and judder. Invisible goldfish were swimming a marathon inside my head and Daniel’s papers were sticking to the palms of my hands.
‘What about the dogs?’ I asked, the pressure in my chest forced it out like a squeak.
‘I’ll go back for them, later.’
‘On your own?’
He glanced over at me. ‘I’ll take Alain.’
The gates of the château glistened in the headlights as we approached. I could feel my rib-cage deflate as I finally let out my pent up breath. Once we were through and they’d closed behind us, Christophe pulled the car over and switched off the engine. He placed both hands on the top of the steering wheel and sank his head onto them.
After a moment, I said, ‘I’m so very sorry for all of this. I never, ever wanted to cause you any trouble.’ My voice was getting fainter with each word. ‘You’ve been really good to me, and all I’ve done is screw things up. Sorry.’
I knew, with absolute, crushing certainty, my dream was well and truly over. Worse, I’d visited my lousy, Marchant misfortune on Christophe’s family, too.
He didn’t speak for ages and I wasn’t about to fill the silence with more apologies and pathetic excuses. I’d let him down, very badly, and I was letting Izzy down too. They’d both gone out of their way to help me in my quest for fulfilment, and trouble had been my contribution.
I stared out at the dark silhouette of trees and fast-forwarded through the process of packing, sitting on a train hurling me further and further from everything I’d hoped for. Back to Mum and Dad, to scour the Educational Supplement for another job. Jeez! I hoped to the Almighty I wouldn’t have to do supply teaching. There wasn’t enough money in the education authority’s coffers to compensate for the indignities suffered by a supply teacher. Although, I probably deserved to do a month or two in the Strangeways of comprehensive education, as penance for my latest misdemeanour.
Just as I was conjuring up a scenario of fourteen year old girls backing me against a wall with the force of their ‘attitood’, Christophe straightened up. ‘Do you know what Keane found out about my grandmother?’
‘No. I’ve no idea.’ My own anxieties had rather eclipsed the skeletons in his family closet. ‘Is it really bad?’
He stared out of the window. ‘My grandfather was very close to a man in his company, called Jacques Valois. You can see photos of them in the album. Apparently, he and my grandmother had an affair, back in the sixties.’
I waited. That didn’t seem such a ghastly crime in the light of her husband’s conduct.
He continued. ‘She had a daughter by him in 1965. The daughter, Albina, was severely handicapped and sent to a private hospital in Surrey. Years later, as you know, my grandmother moved back to England. I always thought it was to avoid the glare of scandal from my grandfather’s latest liaison but now I see it was to spend time with her daughter.’
‘That’s not such a terrible thing, Christophe.’
He tossed his head back and laughed, before turning to look at me. ‘No. If only that’s all it were. But you see, it’s much worse than that.’
‘How much worse?’
‘It seems that back in the sixties, my grandfather’s company was producing LSD. Jacques was his chief chemist, you see, and Jacques had masterminded its production. It wasn’t illegal when they started but after it became illegal, they continued to supply it on the black-market, sharing the profits of this lucrative little side-line. But when Jacques’ brother died from an overdose he was filled with remorse and told my grandfather he wasn’t prepared to continue with production. They fell out and my grandfather paid him hush money and continued alone, for a while.’
‘Surely other chemists in the lab must have known what was going on?’
‘Not necessarily. Pharmaceutical companies back then could be very cagey with their “research”.’
‘You say he carried on for a while, when did he stop?’
‘According to Daniel’s report, Albina was born soon after Jacques left the company. Jacques believed her disability was God’s way of punishing him. He went on a massive LSD trip. He never came back from it.’
‘Oh, how awful.’
‘Ironically, Jacques had left all his estate – and it was quite sizeable, thanks to his creative lab work – to set up a charitable organisation to help victims of drug abuse. It became the Jacques Valois Federation, of which my grandfather, and then my mother became president.’
‘Your grandfather? I thought they’d fallen out?’
Christophe almost smiled. ‘It was Jacques’ way of making sure my grandfather paid, too. It seems his will insisted on it. There was a private letter accompanying the will, which detailed my grandfather’s obligations. I don’t believe Daniel has that letter, but I think we can guess what it said.’
‘Is Albina still alive?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. But I intend to find out.’
‘But, what’s in it for Daniel?’
‘Money.’ He let out a sigh. I had a feeling there would be a lot of sighing still to come. He restarted the car. ‘Come on. Let’s get you settled and then I need to talk to my mother.’
Colette was thrilled by our arrival but her face slackened off when she saw Christophe’s pale, grim features. ‘Chéri, what on earth is the matter?’
‘We’ll speak later. Are any of the guest rooms made up?’
‘Le Rubis. What�
�s happening?’
‘Later!’ he snapped. I got the feeling he suspected she knew the full story.
I was installed in a cosy little room on the side of the château. It had a stone fireplace and a dark, canopied bed in ruby red satin and marble topped bedside cabinets. The en-suite had a huge claw-footed bath and an array of expensive toiletries. Everything a girl might need, apart from English TV and a mini-bar.
Christophe stood in the doorway. ‘Would you like a hot drink? Something stronger?’
‘Brandy, maybe?’ I asked, secretly hoping for the full bottle.
He nodded. ‘See you tomorrow.’
I assumed from that, it would be someone else serving the brandy. I didn’t really qualify for VIP treatment. I slumped onto the bed when he left and indulged in a smorgasbord of self-recrimination and emotional flagellation. I saved the tears until after the brandy, which was brought to me by his aunt, Anne. A woman of few words at any time, she handed the bulbous glass to me and merely said, ‘I hope you sleep well.’
I smiled and waited till the door closed behind her before swallowing half the brandy. Then I ran a hot bath, lay down in it and gave way to a tsunami of misery. The Ruby room (le Rubis) was so far from Colette’s apartment, nobody would hear me and I couldn’t hear them. Instead, I could only imagine the scenes playing out in her salon; the accusations, the blame-laying…undoubtedly some of it aimed at me.
And then I remembered, on Sunday I was supposed to be meeting the guy who ran the arts courses in Bergerac. He was going to come and see my work. So long as Daniel didn’t sabotage that, I was still in with a chance of continuing with my painting. I would phone Bruno tomorrow to confirm our meeting. Whatever Daniel had done to me, there was no reason why I couldn’t get that tutoring job on my own merit. After all, even Daniel had said I’d make a good art teacher. Plus, if my stay in Limousin was about to end, perhaps I could persuade Bruno to give me accommodation in exchange for hard graft. I’d do almost anything rather than shuffle back home in disgrace.
Later, around eleven, I climbed up onto the bed, still wearing the complimentary towelling robe, which had seen much better days, and pulled the sheets over me. I didn’t anticipate sweet dreams. I didn’t hold out much hope for sleep either. There were three books on the cabinet – all in French. No uplifting Marian Keyes; just a Sartre, a Camus and a Stephen King. I’d read the English version so I pulled it towards me and opened it. Soon, words swam out of focus and I started blubbing all over again.