Missing Dad 3
Page 6
Grandad paces up and down in the kitchen, scrutinising the train timetable. ‘We need to leave in three minutes.’
I grab an old envelope lying on the sideboard and scribble, ‘Gone to party in Paris with Joe. Fab invite to help us polish our French.’ As Becks staggers into the kitchen with this enormous suitcase, I hold out the envelope. ‘Sign here.’
Taking the pen, she stares at the message. ‘A bit edited, isn’t it?’
‘Want to add more?’
‘No. Let’s go.’ She signs.
‘You know your suitcase is probably overweight?’
‘Well, you carry it then! I’ll take yours.’
I yank up the case. It nearly dislocates my shoulder. ‘Have you got your passport?’
‘Yes…No!’ She flies back upstairs. Drawers crash onto the floor in her room. ‘God, where is it?…Got it!’ Half way down the stairs, she vaults over the banister and dashes into the kitchen.
Grandad calls from the car. ‘You two, we have to leave – now!’ Grunting, I heave the case into the boot. A mushroom cloud of exhaust smoke belches behind us as the Citroen chugs slowly away from Becks’ house.
***
Bing Bong! ‘The service for London Paddington is about to depart from Platform Two. Passengers for London, change at Cheltenham Spa.’
As he looks around at the platform, packed with strangers hurrying in all directions, Grandad’s face is anxious. ‘You’ll keep in touch won’t you, Joe? Let us know if…’
I hope he’s not having second thoughts. ‘It’s going to be OK, Grandad.’
‘We’d better get in, Joe.’ Becks gives Grandad a hug. ‘Don’t worry – I’ll keep him out of trouble!’
He pats my arm. ‘And you take care of Becks.’
I look at his tired face. ‘Thanks for this, Grandad. I know it isn’t easy for you.’
He smiles awkwardly. ‘I dare say it’s not going to be a stroll in the park for you either, Joe. Just be very careful – and trust your intuition.’ Heaving up Becks’ gargantuan suitcase, I follow her inside the carriage. We find seats on the platform side and I give Grandad a cheerful wave. As the train starts to move, he suddenly looks very small and alone. My eyes sting. I keep on waving, until I can’t see him anymore.
***
Without saying anything, Becks digs into her bag, and passes me a pack of Revels.
‘Thanks.’ We sneak cautious looks around the carriage. It’s second nature now, checking to see who might be listening. In front of us, there’s a bald head and a rustling, as the man opens up his newspaper. On our right, a mum is trying to soothe two irritable kids. ‘You can have the sweets after we’ve changed at Cheltenham. Now just settle down with your ipods.’ Behind us, a woman with a shock of blonde hair and bright red lipstick is on her mobile. ‘Don’t give me that – I told you I was going tonight. What?…No, of course not, I didn’t have time.…Well, get yourself a takeaway then!’
Becks whispers, ‘What d’you think?’
‘Not sure about dude in front. Better keep our voices down.’
Chewing on a toffee Revel, she says thoughtfully, ‘What if Talia’s mother is nothing like the woman we met on the plane? Suppose she isn’t DIW’s suspect?’
‘We say Hi to Arnaud and ask him where his dad is. DIW’s suspect is still after Monsieur, even if she isn’t La Palestrina.’
‘And if she is?’
‘Then we have to tell Arnaud what he’s walking into.’
Becks frowns. ‘What…if he doesn’t believe us? I mean, if he and Talia are friends…’
‘Exactly. Problem number one. Number two – Monsieur can’t know about their friendship, can he? He wouldn’t let Arnaud within a thousand miles of this woman who’s been tailing him for sixteen years.’ The newspaper in front rustles again as a page is turned.
She whispers, ‘So, if Monsieur has no idea that Arnaud’s going to be at this party…’
‘One more thing, Becks. Arnaud’s not going to be expecting us, is he? He’ll wonder what the hell’s going on when we show up.’
Becks shakes her head. ‘What if Talia’s told him we’re going to be there? To get him to come?’
The breath whistles slowly out through my teeth. ‘Like she told us he’d be there, to get us to come. Why didn’t I think of that?’
‘Because the double hook is something that us wee girlies are particularly good at, Joe. Just like dudes are better than us at footie. On rare occasions.’
Bing Bong! ‘This train is due to arrive at Cheltenham Spa in one minute. All passengers for London Paddington, please move to the front three carriages.’
The newspaper gives another rustle. It disappears from sight as the bald headed guy starts to get up. Something about his tweed suit sends a shock of horrified surprise down my spine. ‘Get going, Becks!’
‘What is it?’
‘Tell you later. Make it fast!’
We scramble off the train. ‘The Paddington service is about to depart from Platform Two. London passengers from the Gloucester service, please cross the footbridge and make your way to Platform Two.’
I heave Becks’ suitcase up the steps. ‘Are there bricks in this?’
‘Come ON, Joe!’
Glancing over my shoulder I see the tweed suit a few yards behind. I put on a spurt, and half fall down the steps on the other side with the suitcase bumping my ankles. We race down the platform and topple into the first carriage. It looks empty. With a mighty shove, I park the suitcase on the rack and collapse into a seat, sweat pouring off me. ‘This is like training for the SAS. And we haven’t even got to London!’
‘What was it you saw as we were getting off?’
‘Not what – who. Dude in front. I’m sure it was Mr Hanks.’
‘My Geography teacher? Oh-my-God. Did he see you?’
‘That’s the funny thing. I’m sure he did. But he just looked away.’
‘He must have seen you lugging my suitcase. It can hardly have looked like we were going for a sleepover with some mates in Cheltenham.’
‘Actually, he had a big suitcase with him, too.’
Her green eyes sparkle with mischief. ‘Would you ever have thought it? Mr Hanks has a secret life.’
Chapter 7
Portrait of Napoleon
‘Monsieur! Réveillez-vous. Ici, la Gare du Nord!’
‘Wh…what?’ I open my eyes. The black uniform towering over me looks like a cop. Did I commit a crime in my sleep?
The guard sighs. ‘Les anglais. The train, it has arrived. You must descend.’
Becks struggles with the suitcase. ‘I couldn’t wake you, Joe. You were like the undead.’
I heave myself slowly out of the seat. My neck won’t move. ‘I think I still am. What happened to Paddington?’
‘You like, sleepwalked onto the tube?’
Yawning, I grab the suitcase. My neck sends stabs of pain into my shoulder. ‘And St Pancras?’
‘You woke up just long enough to collect the tickets and get through passport control. As soon as we were on the Eurostar, you went to sleep again. Don’t you remember any of this?’
‘Course. Just…checking that you do.’ We stagger off the train. My stomach’s sending stabbing pains now. ‘And…we had loads to eat, didn’t we?’
‘In your dreams! There wasn’t any buffet car on the London train.’
We follow the ‘Sortie’ signs through the bustling concourse. ‘No wonder I was asleep. I must have been trying to hibernate.’ Outside in the bright sunshine, I try to turn my stiff neck and look upwards. ‘This station is like some kind of cathedral. What are all those stone statues?’
‘They don’t look like saints. Wish I had their head for heights.’
‘It’s like Rome, when we went in Year Sev
en…?’
‘And here comes our chariot.’ A white S-Class Merc cruises slowly up and double parks, boxing in two grey BMW 5 Series taxis. Instantly, both drivers leap out of their cars. They don’t look like Gloucester cabbies. In the heat of the morning sun, they’re wearing shirts and ties. They take in the Merc and suddenly all the fight goes out of them. They start chatting to each other, propping themselves up on their cars, like this isn’t a problem at all.
I whisper to Becks. ‘I can’t wait to see what kind of dude can park like that without getting separated from his head.’
The guy in the white uniform who slips out from the Merc is wiry and he walks like he’s been in the army. In a deeply bronzed face, his eyes are concealed behind reflective sun shades as he scans the crowd from beneath the white chauffeur’s cap. He spots us, and moves briskly in our direction. The two taxi drivers stop chatting and watch as our white driver gives a quick bow of the head. ‘Excuse me, Monsieur, Mademoiselle, but are you the guests of the Contessa Palestrina?’ The voice is quiet and English. So English, this guy sounds like he went to some posh school a long time ago. I stare at him, at a loss for words.
Becks parachutes in. ‘We’re here for her daughter’s party. Talia?’
‘Yes, of course. Please let me take your bags.’ He lifts Becks’ case like it’s a feather, and reaches for my holdall. Mesmerised, I hand it over and we follow him to the white Merc. I can feel the cabbies’ eyes on us. He opens the rear door and waves us inside. The scent of leather washes back memories of Monsieur’s Bentley when I was the driver, not a passenger. The man in white whips a remote from his pocket and the boot swings open. Effortlessly, he swings the huge suitcase inside.
Becks breathes in. ‘It’s so cool in here.’
My head leaning back on the seat, I gaze out at the long rows of tall, elegant buildings as White Driver slips expertly through the traffic. It’s all so green. Trees cast their shade down every avenue, the bright sun glinting through the leaves. We glide past restaurants where tourists pack the tables, sipping café au lait and munching croissants and pain au chocolat. Then we’re in a road so wide and straight, a whole army could march up it side by side. Becks nudges me. ‘Look! That must be the Arc de Triomphe.’
My neck twinges again, as I stare up at the stone archway rising hundreds of feet above us. ‘Everything is so huge here.’
She whispers, ‘Shall we come and live here, one day?’
‘I thought we were going to live in Aix…I was going to get a job, polishing the fountains, remember? And you were going to be a prof at the Uni?’
Becks doesn’t seem to hear me. She gazes out of the window as the Merc turns onto a bridge. With its fancy carvings and statues, it looks like it must lead to some fairy tale palace. ‘We’re crossing the Seine! Look at all the bateaux mouches – we could take a ride in one, tomorrow, couldn’t we?’
‘Becks…we might not be…’
She grabs my arm. ‘You’ve got to look now, Joe. It’s Notre Dame. I Googled it but I had no idea it was so big!’
My dazed eyes take in the enormous church, fronted by twin towers. Even in the bright morning, its massive hulk is dark against the sky. The leering gargoyles glare down at us.
‘This could be the best sightseeing tour of Paris we’ll ever get. The Eiffel Tower’s just over there. Isn’t it amazing?’
I get a kind of shock, as I look where Becks is pointing. Above the mellow stone of the Roman-style architecture, the dark, latticed ironwork of the Eiffel Tower soars towards the sky. The four massive legs straddle like a Martian invader. ‘Yeah.’
Across the river, the Merc weaves through tiny streets, bumping over cobbled stones. The tall, narrow houses are six stories high; they throw the street into shadow, even in the morning sun. Baskets of flowers hang from windows. I catch a glimpse of a street name, La Boucherie. The car stops, outside a building that looks like a small hotel. The walls are whitewashed, vines snaking upwards around shuttered windows. The door is invitingly open; inside, it’s dark.
White Driver gets our cases out of the boot. With that little bow again, he gestures towards the door. ‘After you, Mademoiselle Bowman, Monsieur Grayling.’
On stiff legs, Becks and I walk inside and stand blinking in the semi-darkness. Dim lighting illuminates a reception desk in glowing mahogany. To our left, a stairway coils upwards, the banister in the same rich wood. A soft, red carpet is beneath our feet. Gold-framed oil paintings of shadowy faces hang on the walls. It’s cool in here but no sound of air-con. There’s no sound of anything.
Ting! We jump as White Driver hits the bell on the desk. Light footsteps fly down the stairs. The girl is dressed like a maid, with apron and short dress. But the whole outfit is white – even the tights and flat heeled shoes. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a complicated tuft, with glittering white braid woven into it. I try not to stare at her eyes. There’s something about them that I can’t work out.
She gives us a brilliant smile. ‘Becks and Joe?’ The accent’s Australian.
My voice croaks. ‘Er….’
‘Fantastic. I’m Freddie. You two must be dying to get changed. Your rooms are all ready. This way.’ She motions us towards the stairs. I flick a glance back towards White Driver. Silently, a slight smile on his dark-tanned face, he picks up our luggage and follows. On the first landing, The Blonde flings open a white painted door with a gold handle. ‘This is yours, Becks. The Marie Antoinette. Pretty, isn’t it?’
Becks stares at the antique furniture, velvet curtains and chiffon-draped four-poster. ‘Awesome!’ She tiptoes inside as White Driver deposits her suitcase.
The Blonde flashes another atomic smile. ‘There’s an ensuite through that door, Becks. Towels, all the stuff.’
‘What time…?’
‘Partying starts around nine. So you’ve got all day for doing the sights. You been to Paris before?’
Becks shakes her head. ‘I’ve always wanted to.’
‘Babe, this is like, the ONLY place on the planet. If I had time, I’d just love to show you dudes around. But, duty calls.’
‘I expect Talia and her mum are busy too?’ I’ve worked out what’s weird about Freddie’s eyes. Her long false eyelashes are white.
She shrugs extravagantly. ‘Like they’ve re-invented stress? They need their Auntie Freddie to look after them. Now, I’ll show you to your suite, Joe. You’re just goin’ to love it.’
I glance back at Becks as Freddie marches me out of the door and towards the stairs. Dreamily, she’s gazing out of the window at the spire of the Eiffel Tower, as it points towards the sky like an enormous exclamation mark.
Freddie’s voice is teasing as we go up the stairs, White Driver patiently following with my bag. ‘Any guesses what your room’s called, Joe?’
‘Can’t be Napoleon. I’m way taller than he was.’
She laughs. ‘Napoleon might have been vertically challenged, but he was very clever too, wasn’t he?’
‘That definitely rules me out, Freddie.’
We arrive on the next landing. Straight ahead is another white door with a gold handle. With a flourish, Freddie swings the door open. The room is vast. A leather-clad Chesterfield has a carved wood table next to it. The floor is varnished wood with brilliantly coloured Indian rugs. The bed covers look like tiger skins. On the wall, there’s a gold-framed portrait of Napoleon on this rearing Arab horse and he’s pointing off to the left, looking straight at me. Like, check this out, dude.
‘What d’ya think, Joe?’ Freddie’s white eyelashes flutter expectantly.
‘It…looks like the kind of place a rock star would stay.’
She giggles. ‘Oh, they do. The Contessa has loads of celebrity mates. They love coming here to unwind. She looks after them so well.’
‘I bet she does. By the way, where is the party, Fr
eddie?’
‘Just a stroll away. I’ll catch you and Becks when you get back. Oh, and if you want a really cool place to eat, head for the Catacombs – there’s a fab little bistro just opposite.’ Her mobile trills. ‘Have to go. Auntie Freddie to the rescue again. Have a good day, Joe.’ She bounces off down the stairs. White Driver puts down my suitcase and melts away.
I wander into the bathroom. Thick black towels are draped over the rails. A black dressing gown hangs on the door. So I’m not one of the accessories, then. I go back into the bedroom and stare at the portrait of Napoleon. There’s something wrong with it. It’s not just that he’s too big for that little Arab horse, which must be why it’s rearing. The really wrong thing is, he’s pointing left. In all the movies I’ve ever seen, going left means retreat. Idly, I run my fingers over the base of the ornate gold frame, touching the laurel wreath in the centre. Perhaps it’s Waterloo. But Napoleon wouldn’t have wanted…Click!
I jump back from the painting. It’s moving. Swinging towards me like a cupboard door opening. Heart thumping, I force myself to look inside. The large porcelain bowl, decorated with grapes and plump cherubs, looks like it should contain fruit. Instead, there are small packets of sweets, wrapped in cellophane, with coloured bows. A gold card lies next to the bowl. The elaborate script says, ‘With the compliments of the hostess.’
I so want to think it’s alright. Just a nice little extra touch of hospitality. But it isn’t alright, is it? Why are these sweets hidden where only those in the know would find them? Shaking, my hands dig into the bowl. I’m back to that night where I looked in the boot of the Bentley. And found what was lying beneath the false floor of that box. More little cellophane bags, as pretty as the ones on top. But these have white powder in. The room reels around me. My mobile sings out Radiohead. ‘Joe, I’m starving! Can we go eat?’
‘You’d…you…’
‘What’s wrong?’
I swallow. ‘You’d better come up here. I’m in the room right above. Don’t let anyone see you.’
Quietly, I open the door as I hear her outside. Her eyes widen as they take in the scattered packets of white stuff jumbled up with the sweets. ‘Is it…?’