Missing Dad 3

by J Ryan

  ‘It is Becks, isn’t it? And Joe?’

  ‘Yes. And we’ve been looking for Arnaud.’

  ‘You said, an old friend of my mother?’

  ‘He wants to meet Arnaud, too.’

  She hesitates. ‘He…will come. He is late.’

  ‘When will he come, Talia?’

  I can feel Becks’ anger. But I’m starting to feel sorry for Talia. Her fingers pluck at the white wig. ‘He…’

  Becks’ voice is ice cold. ‘What colour is Arnaud’s hair, Talia?’

  Talia’s voice trembles. ‘Why do you ask me these questions? You are my friends, aren’t you?’

  I cut in. ‘We are your friends, Talia. But it’s really important that you tell us the truth. Do you know Arnaud, or don’t you?’

  She sobs, ‘My mother…she told me…’

  ‘What you had to say to us?’

  Tearing off the mask, she wipes away tears with the embroidered sleeve. She looks like a dressed up doll that’s turning to rags. Behind us, I can sense the white form of Freddie, stalking quietly. Becks says brightly, ‘Hi, Freddie. Hey, d’you know, if you come with me just over there, you can catch an amazing view of the full moon?’ She grabs Freddie’s arm and rushes her over to the opposite side of the garden.

  Quietly, I ask Talia, ‘What did your mother say? It’s alright, we won’t tell anyone, I promise.’

  Between these awful shaking sobs, she gasps, ‘She said…I had to tell you that Arnaud was invited to my party. That…he was the son of Le Comte de la Rochelle.’

  ‘And, do you know Arnaud?’

  ‘I have never known this Arnaud! I don’t know why she told me to say that to you. My mother only talks to me when she wants me to do something for her…’ She weeps again, her face pale and wretched.

  I can’t put her through any more of this. ‘OK. Let’s go back inside.’

  The blue eyes look at me beseechingly. ‘Do you believe me, Joe?’

  ‘Are you upset about something, sweetie?’ Freddie’s on her way over.

  ‘I believe you. I’m sorry, Talia, but we had to know. Now, let’s forget it.’ Talia’s hands shake as she pulls her mask back on over the wig.

  I turn to Freddie. ‘We were talking about a mate at school. He had to go into hospital with appendicitis.’ Before the mask covers Talia’s eyes again, I see a look of fear. And something else that I can’t understand.

  ***

  Back in the marquee, Freddie claps her hands. ‘Pray silence, Mesdemoiselles, Messieurs!’ The band wind down their number and the drummer hits the cymbals with a dramatic clash. ‘The Contessa says it’s time to toast Talia, our queen of cool. The bubbly’s going round.’

  Becks whispers, ‘Are you going to find somewhere to call Monsieur? About Arnaud not being here?’

  ‘Too late. Here she comes.’ We mingle with the white wigs and black hats as Talia’s mother sweeps regally through the entrance. She’s wearing a gold crinoline with layers of lace. Diamonds flash in her wig and at her throat. She doesn’t have a mask. The cold blue eyes scan the crowd and stop when they get to me and Becks. My neck crawls. Has she recognised us? I thrust my hands deep into my pockets.

  ‘My dear young friends, my thanks to you for coming here tonight to celebrate the birthday of my beloved daughter.’ Her throaty voice is almost warm. Everyone cheers and claps. I look around, wondering where Talia is. A white-suited waiter waves a tray in front of me and Becks. Reaching for the back of the tray, we each take a fluted glass that sparkles with a pale gold liquid. He moves on. I stare at the swarms of tiny bubbles soaring to the surface in my glass. ‘Talia is not one to take centre stage. That is why she wanted all you girls to dress as queens, like her. And how beautiful you all are.’ The Napoleons voice their admiration with wolf whistles and more cheers.

  Becks nudges me. ‘I wish she’d get on with it!’

  ‘Just don’t touch this stuff, OK?’

  ‘As if!’

  Palestrina is enjoying herself. ‘As for our handsome Napoleons, I’m sure the ladies would like to express their appreciation?’ The ladies do so with ear-numbing shrieks and whoops. ‘So now, boys and girls, I ask you to raise your glasses. To Talia.’

  A roar goes up. ‘To Talia!’ Glasses clink together. Marie Antoinettes hug Napoleon Bonapartes. The drummer does another of his cymbal clashes. Slowly, Becks and I lower our glasses and empty them onto the floor. Palestrina raises her hand for quiet. ‘Talia, darling, you can’t hide away all night. It is time for you to say a few words to your guests.’

  An expectant silence descends. The drummer starts a cymbal roll. It goes on and on. No one moves. Suddenly, a girl screams. The cymbal stops abruptly. The crowd parts. A Marie Antoinette has fallen. The empty glass rolls away from her outstretched hand as she lies there motionless.

  Appearing out of nowhere, White Driver kneels beside her. He still wears his mask. ‘Get back! She needs air!’ In the distance, sirens are wailing. Coming closer, fast. Staring, the guests retreat, as White Driver gently takes the glittering mask from the girl’s head. The white wig comes off with it. Long pale hair streams out. Talia’s eyes are closed.

  Palestrina stands there, paralysed. Her eyes flick quickly around the crowd.

  Running feet approach the marquee. Two medics burst in with a stretcher and oxygen tank. I watch the Contessa, expecting her to rush to her daughter’s side. She hesitates for a few seconds, looking at Talia’s silent form. Then the gold crinoline slips out into the night.

  The guests stand there in shock. The girls are slowly taking off their masks and wigs. Some of them are crying softly. The medics talk in French in urgent whispers, as they try to revive Talia. Dimly, more sirens are wailing.

  A hand touches my arm. White Driver says quietly, ‘We have to leave.’

  I recognise the voice. ‘Monsieur…?’

  Becks overhears, and turns swiftly. ‘Monsieur, Arnaud isn’t…’

  ‘She has tricked us. And now, running, she is more dangerous than ever before.’

  Chapter 10

  The Long Cord

  As we follow Monsieur out of a side exit from the marquee, I take a quick glance back. No one’s following. But the sound of police sirens is getting louder. The door to the house is still open after the medics’ frantic rush through. In the hall beyond, just one light glows on the wood panelled walls. We slip inside, Becks’ dress rustling softly. We’re half way across the hall when there’s a quiet click. Freddie stands on the stairs. The light gleams on the small revolver in her hand. ‘Well now, aren’t you the party poopers?’

  ‘Put the gun down, Mademoiselle. You would not want to be seen holding it when the police arrive.’

  She laughs. ‘Nice try, Monsieur. The Contessa said you were smart. You know very well that the cops are going to be way more interested in you than me.’

  ‘I think not, Mademoiselle. It was I who called them.’ In the half second that she hesitates at his words, his hand flashes across to the paper weight on the desk and hurls it at the lamp. The glass shatters and we’re plunged into darkness. There’s a shot. Becks gasps.

  ‘Becks…!’

  ‘I’m alright – let’s go!’

  We tear out of the door. Two ambulances wait outside, blue lights flashing. The police sirens are in the next street now. ‘This way.’ Monsieur turns down a small alley as two cop cars screech up to the house. The Contessa’s white Merc is parked outside a garage door. We pile inside, Monsieur pulling off his mask. He fires up the engine and accelerates away.

  ‘What happened when the gun went off, Becks?’ Slowly, she pulls the wig from her head, her red hair tumbling out round her shoulders. As Monsieur drives swiftly through the narrow streets, we both stare at her white helmet. Near the top of the mound of curls, the hair is burned black. A small hole goes ri
ght through. My Marie Antoinette has been luckier than her namesake tonight.

  ***

  The brooding hulk of Notre Dame blocks out the stars as we cross the Seine. On the other side of the river, the streets are busy with traffic. I shiver, thinking of the six million ancient Parisians who lie beneath in that maze of dark tunnels. ‘Are we going to Marseille, Monsieur? To Arnaud?’

  He nods. ‘Unfortunately, time is not on our side.’

  ‘She’s going there too?’

  ‘I believe that she planned to, all along. And I have made it so much easier for her, by leaving Arnaud alone on the yacht.’

  ‘We overheard her, ordering her car for midnight. But that was…’

  Becks leans forward. ‘Monsieur, how did you know to call the police when you did? It must have been before…Talia…’

  He slows at a red light up ahead. ‘I was reconnoitring the house when I found James, the chauffeur. He was very ill.’

  I remember those two masks, confronting each other in the candle light. ‘She’d poisoned him?’

  ‘The anti-histamine helped him to breathe again. And to talk…a little. What he managed to say convinced me that I should call two ambulances. And the police.’ The lights go on green. We drive past a sign for ‘Toutes Directions’.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘James told me that you were both in great danger. I had to assume that she was going to make a second attempt on your lives.’

  I’m seeing Palestrina’s panicking eyes as they barely glanced at Talia. ‘Something went wrong, didn’t it? She meant to poison us with that champagne or whatever it was.’

  Monsieur’s voice is quiet as we head south out of Paris. ‘I have some doubts about that. The Contessa’s methods are very precise.’

  My hands prickle again as I remember the mobile that she knew I’d pick up. ‘So, it would have been too random to poison the drink?’

  ‘When the glasses came round, did you pick up the ones nearest to you?’

  ‘We took the ones furthest away.’

  ‘Exactly. She would not have poisoned the champagne, any more than the food.’

  ‘So…what’s happened to Talia?’

  ‘She was barely breathing. Beyond that, I wish I knew.’

  Becks whispers, ‘Do you think…she’s going to be alright, Monsieur?’

  At the sign for the A6 to Lyon, Monsieur flicks the indicator. We stop at the toll booth to pay. Then the Merc heads rapidly onto the southbound road. He says softly, ‘We must hope. That is all we can do. And James…’ I wish I could see Monsieur’s face.

  ***

  With the subdued hum of the engine lulling us, Becks and I must have dozed off. When I open my eyes we’re driving on an almost empty motorway, signs flashing past like lightning. Monsieur flicks quick glances into the rear view mirror. He’s ditched the chauffeur’s cap, with no more need for any disguise. I peel off the frilly gloves and look at my hands. They look blotchy rather than black. As I touch the fingers of my right hand with my left one, there’s more than a trace of tingly feeling there now. I can’t believe I picked up that mobile. But I didn’t know then what I know now.

  I look at Becks. She’s woken up too, staring out into the night at signs that say we’re not far from Lyon. Her red hair curls over the puffed sleeves of the pink crinoline. The white wig lies at her feet. ‘How far from Lyon to Marseille, do you think?’

  She shakes her head, touching my bruised hand. ‘Does it hurt?’

  ‘No. It’s just a bit numb.’

  Monsieur turns his head slightly. ‘About a hundred and seventy miles. Maybe three hours before we reach the yacht.’ Becks and I fall silent. I think about the one simple lie that brought us to that place of death, deep under Paris. Poor, innocent Talia; with a mother who cares more about saving her own skin than the life of her daughter.

  Another thought crosses my mind. ‘Monsieur, the police will be after the Contessa now. James will tell them all about her. So she’ll have to go into hiding, won’t she? She won’t go to Marseille.’

  For a few seconds, he doesn’t reply. When he speaks, his voice is terse. ‘She is accustomed to getting what she wants. She will not let the police deter her.’ Never Forget Me. Sixteen years. What is this long cord that gives Monsieur such a deep understanding of his enemy? And ties him so tightly to her.

  ***

  We reach an interchange and Monsieur turns onto the motorway for Marseille. His eyes are on the mirror again. ‘We are being followed.’

  Becks and I crane our necks to see what’s behind us. All I can make out is a dim glow of headlamps on the horizon. ‘How long for?’

  ‘Ever since we left Paris. I was not sure until we took the turn at Lyon.’

  ‘Is it her?’

  ‘She will be well ahead of us.’

  ‘Could it be police?’

  ‘Possibly. We are in her car. But I don’t think the police would wait so long.’ Becks and I stare at the slowly increasing glare behind us. The Merc is stretched to the limit, engine howling. We must be doing close on 180 but still those lights come closer. Then a streak of flame arcs skywards from the car behind. A firework soars over us and there’s the dull thump of an explosion in front. A blinding light fills the car. The seatbelt bites into my ribs as Monsieur brakes hard and swings the wheel. We veer across the motorway. The crash barrier hurtles towards us. Another violent swing of the wheel, tyres screaming. He stamps on the throttle again. I stare at the clouds of smoke rising into the night sky behind us. And at the headlamps blazing through them. Monsieur’s voice has a cold anger. ‘Rocket-propelled grenades. It is her people. They think it is her they are firing at.’

  ‘Why would they do that?’

  ‘The police are after her. She has lost control of her vermin and now they are turning against her. Hold on very tight!’ He slams on the brakes. Becks gasps as our ribs get carved up again by the seatbelts. Monsieur yanks the handbrake, pulling the Merc into a U-turn to face our pursuers. At the same moment another rocket shrieks overhead. There’s a second massive thump, behind us this time. For a horrible moment, the headlamps of the car that fired the grenade come straight at us. I hold my breath as Monsieur drives headlong towards them. The car swerves to avoid us and flies past, tyres screaming, straight into the smoke and flames.

  ‘Get down! The fuel tank will blow!’ Monsieur accelerates the wrong way down the motorway. Seconds later, a huge blast shudders behind. Then an eerie quiet descends. Monsieur turns the Merc and drives slowly back towards the burning wreck. I gaze at it. Maybe it was a black Porsche Carrera, once.

  Becks’ voice is very quiet. ‘They must be dead, mustn’t they?’

  I struggle to say what has to be said. Be a man. ‘It was us or them. We weren’t the ones who were firing.’ Monsieur steers round the black smoke pouring from the wreckage and drives on into the dark. Becks lowers her head into her arms. I don’t know how to comfort her. We shouldn’t be here.

  ***

  I’m tossing and turning in my bed, knotted up in my duvet. As soon as I get my head out of it, there’s another one on top. It’s dark and suffocating. But I know that outside the covers, a deeper blackness is waiting. Then, bright lights. Someone gently shakes my shoulder. ‘Time to wake up, Joe. Have you got your passport?’

  On autopilot, I rummage in my pocket. ‘Er…why?’

  ‘And, Becks?’

  She raises a sleepy head. ‘What…?’

  ‘We are at Marseille Marignane. There is a plane to take you home, to Bristol Airport, in two hours time. Do you still have the money?’

  My hand goes to the battered envelope that Monsieur gave us, all that time ago. So long, it feels like years. ‘Yeah…but…’

  He opens the door of the Merc. ‘This is where we say Goodbye, Joe.’

 
I clamber out, my sight clouded with sleep. ‘Wh…what do you mean?’

  His grey eyes meet mine. ‘You and Becks have been on this trail of death with me for far too long. It is time for you to go home and be safe.’

  Safe. I can hear Grandad’s voice when he let me go into this dark he knew nothing about. ‘Trust your intuition.’ My intuition is already on its way home.

  The white wig with its black bullet hole flares onto the tarmac beside Monsieur’s feet. There’s a rustling, as Becks peels off the crinoline and chucks it out of the car. She scrambles out in her jeans and top and glares at us. ‘We’re wasting precious time!’

  One look at her blazing green eyes and angry red hair is enough. I push all thoughts of home behind me. ‘We’re coming with you, Monsieur.’

  He pauses, looking from me to Becks. In the glare of the overhead lights from the car park, his face is strained. ‘You don’t know who it is…what it is…that waits for us.’

  ‘We do know, Monsieur. Let’s go.’

  I put my hand on Becks’ arm. I can see from Monsieur’s troubled face that he’s struggling with something he may never have told anyone. A plane thunders over our heads, coming in to land. As the roar of the engine fades, Monsieur says quietly, ‘At the chateau that night, I told you that my wife died soon after Arnaud was born. At the time, I could not bring myself to tell you how she died.’ He looks away towards the horizon, where a grey dawn shows faintly through the clouds. ‘Sixteen years ago, I was using my business in the wine trade as a cover to conduct an investigation into the Contessa. Our contacts suspected where her wealth was coming from. She became one of my clients. Soon however, she made it clear that she wished our relationship to be more than a financial one. I…had to explain that it could not. I was engaged to Lisette. Shortly after, Lisette and I married. That same year, Arnaud was born.’