Missing Dad 3

by J Ryan

  Another plane thunders onto the runway past the airport buildings. ‘One day, I came home from a journey abroad and I found…’ His voice falters. ‘The baby was crying. Lisette looked as though she was sleeping. In her hand was a silver rattle. The wrapping paper was lying on the floor. I found out that the Contessa had visited earlier that day.’

  Becks whispers, ‘The police…didn’t they…?’

  His voice hardens. ‘The post mortem gave the cause of death as heart failure. In those days the police knew little or nothing about such sophisticated methods of bringing an end to life. Now, I know far more…’

  ‘The anti-histamine…?’

  ‘I have carried it with me ever since. At least that knowledge enabled me to prevent her from bringing your life to an end, Joe. But you must both now understand this fury that drives her. She will not stop until she has destroyed everyone close to me.’ As he speaks, I can hear his voice in that room full of shadows in the ancient chateau: I couldn’t forgive myself.

  A plane roars skywards as the rising sun glints through the black clouds. Monsieur briskly slams the doors of the Merc. He pushes the remote and the locks snap shut. ‘Come, I will see you into the departure lounge.’

  Becks and I don’t move. She says, ‘We’re not going home, Monsieur.’

  Chapter 11

  Storm Force

  It was calm as we drove rapidly from the airport to the Old Port in Marseille. The sun rose above the clouds, blazing early morning light from a clear blue sky. Monsieur parked the Merc in a side street where the boulangeries sent out a mouth watering smell of freshly baked bread.

  Now, a breeze flutters the canvas covers of the market stalls on the dockside. The rigging of the boats moored in the harbour clinks against the masts with a persistent Ting, Ting, like hundreds of tiny warning bells.

  Sweating in the warmth of the sun, I wriggle out of the Napoleon trousers and jacket, leaving on just my jeans and top. I stuff my jeans into the boots, wishing I had my trainers like Becks. Monsieur takes off the chauffeur’s jacket. He leaves the Merc unlocked. ‘The Marseille police will have been alerted by now. When they find the car, it will point them towards us.’

  He walks quickly along the harbour side, past the long line of yachts and cruisers. On one yacht, a tanned, middle-aged couple sit on deck in white shorts and shirts, sipping their coffees. They look up as we hurry past. I shove my hands in my pockets. Becks slips her arm through mine, the gusting breeze blowing her hair around her face. Monsieur’s brisk footsteps get slower as we approach the Lisette. Moving gently on the water, she’s moored away from the others on a wooden pontoon. She must have sailed a long way since the first time I went out in her with Monsieur in Plymouth.

  Quietly, we climb down the ladder from the harbour wall to the pontoon. The Lisette looks deserted. Curtains are drawn across the cabin windows. The mainsail is neatly furled around the boom. No sound comes from inside the cabin. Only one thing is out of place. Near the door of the cabin, an empty mug rolls slowly from side to side with the motion of the boat. The dark trail of coffee on the teak wood of the deck is still wet.

  With a single movement, Monsieur swings himself over the rail onto the deck and kicks open the cabin hatch. Dreading what we’re going to find, Becks and I follow. He steps down into the cabin. The Contessa’s throaty voice drifts up to us. ‘How lovely to see you again, Christian. And your two young friends as well.’

  We enter the cabin behind Monsieur’s motionless figure. On the settee that curls round a centre table, Arnaud sits opposite the Contessa. She reclines in the white dress she was wearing earlier last night. Her left arm relaxes on the top of the settee. There’s something in her hand like a small mobile. We could almost have interrupted them in the middle of an ordinary conversation. Except that Arnaud’s face is deathly pale. His dark eyes meet ours but there’s no expression in them. Very slightly, he moves the right hand that lies in his lap. Then he looks back at her. My attention is caught by the thick, black bracelet on his right wrist. It’s a bit like a watch. But he’s already wearing a watch on his left wrist.

  The cold blue eyes take us in with a satisfied look. ‘I knew you wouldn’t be able to keep away, Christian.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  She smiles that smile that never gets to her eyes. ‘Always to the point, Christian, as usual.’

  ‘Then get to the point. The police are on their way, you know that.’

  Her voice is lazy; in control. ‘It’s very simple, my dear Christian. You are going to take me to England in this pretty yacht of yours. How I shall enjoy sailing in the Lisette. It will bring back so many memories of our time together.’

  Monsieur takes a quick step towards her. For a moment, I think he’s going to hit her. All I can see is his back, as tense as a tiger’s before the strike. Hesitantly, I reach out and touch his arm in a silent message, looking across at the black bracelet then at her hand. His head turns slightly my way, and he gives a small nod. His voice is calm as he looks at the woman who murdered his wife. ‘You have more efficient ways of fleeing the police than this. Or don’t you, anymore?’

  She never hesitates. ‘Of course I have. But not in such congenial company.’

  ‘It would take three weeks at least to sail this yacht to the nearest English port. That would give the police all the time they need to track you down.’

  She waves her hand airily. It’s not a mobile she’s holding. Arnaud’s eyes never leave it. On the bracelet around his wrist, a small red light suddenly flickers. ‘Do you think I am a fool, Christian? The trail I have laid will take them in the opposite direction to England.’

  ‘Three weeks is a long time. We need provisions – food, and fuel. And we are certain to meet bad weather. Even now, the wind is rising.’

  ‘Such pathetic excuses. Are you afraid of the weather, Christian?’ A sudden gust buffets the hull. The yacht sways slightly. The cabin grows darker as the sun goes in.

  Monsieur says slowly, ‘What can you do to stop us all walking off this boat, right now?’ I hear Arnaud’s sharp intake of breath as he looks from her to his father. The red light is steadily on. Next to me, Becks stares at it, mesmerised.

  The Contessa’s icy blue eyes look at Monsieur. She holds out the remote control in the palm of her hand. There’s only one button on it. Her husky voice is soft as she gazes at it like it’s a toy. ‘I so enjoyed creating this. How thankful I am that I took it with me from my little rooms beneath Paris before your young friends blew them to pieces.’ Her voice is iron cold now. ‘That is not the way to treat a generous hostess. Would you like me to show you how it works, Christian? Would you?’

  Monsieur says nothing. Arnaud stares at the floor, ignoring the red light. Becks’ voice breaks desperately into the silence. ‘We can guess…how it works.’

  The gold coils of hair tilt towards Becks with an interest that makes my blood run cold. ‘You can guess can you, my pretty little Becks? Then would you like to tell us?’

  ‘That button on the remote. It…releases poison from the bracelet.’

  The cold voice is amused. ‘Almost correct. How clever you are, my dear. However, merely releasing poison onto the skin is not the most accurate method. Injection directly into the bloodstream is far more effective.’

  Becks flicks a frightened glance at Monsieur. He looks steadily at the Contessa. ‘I will take you to England. But only if these young people walk free. And you remove that obscene device from my son’s arm.’

  ‘What a delectable thought. A three week voyage alone with you, Christian.’ She shakes her head. ‘Regrettably, I don’t think I could trust you without this little…incentive.’

  ‘You have my word. I will take you to any port or landing place you wish.’

  The pale eyes look at him with a greed that makes me shudder. ‘You know, I almost believe you, Chri
stian. How I wish I could.’ Never Forget Me. What kind of hunger is this? A jealous frenzy that will murder, and murder again, refusing to accept that it will never ever get what it craves.

  Monsieur says quietly, ‘You have tortured and killed for so many years now that it is an instinct for you. But can you really tell me that your instincts as a mother were not strong enough to keep you at your daughter’s side? When she is so ill, maybe even dying?’

  She hesitates, as momentarily as she did in the marquee. ‘You know full well that I would be of no use to my dear Talia in the hands of the police.’

  ‘So you are taking the coward’s way out. As always.’

  ‘If you say that again, Christian…’ She points the remote towards Arnaud. The red light on the bracelet flickers on. A blast of wind slaps the rigging against the mast. ‘It’s time we left. Cast off – is that the correct seafaring terminology?’

  I see the revulsion in Monsieur’s face as he turns to climb on deck. ‘Come with me as lookout, Joe.’

  ‘And you can sit here with us, my dear.’ The Contessa pats the settee next to her.

  ‘I’d rather stand, thanks.’

  The voice is glacial. ‘Sit down.’ Slowly, Becks seats herself next to Arnaud. As Monsieur and I climb out of the cabin, the Contessa calls after us. ‘Oh, and Christian, in case you two try to hatch any little plots out there – this poison has no antidote. Death is as inevitable as it is painfully slow.’

  Monsieur turns back to her. I’ve never heard so much danger in his voice; in those whispered words. ‘If you harm my son, I will kill you.’

  ***

  The wind hits my face as I follow Monsieur on deck. On the horizon, ragged black clouds are gathering. The sky reels with seagulls retreating inland. Monsieur checks the rigging then starts the engine. I hear him curse softly. ‘We are low on fuel. This is insanity.’

  I climb onto the pontoon and untie the painter. Slowly, the yacht starts to move backwards off the mooring. When she’s almost clear, I jump back on board and coil the rope. The couple who were eating their breakfast on deck give me a cheerful wave from their boat. Trying to summon a grin, I wave back. If only I could yell at them to call the police. But there’s nothing I can do while Arnaud wears that bracelet; and she holds his life in her hand.

  The walled harbour entrance approaches, with its ancient fortifications. The water is only slightly choppy here. But beyond the harbour the waves are white-tipped with foam. I look up at the wind indicator on top of the mast. The arrow swings one way then another, as gusts hit us from different directions.

  ‘Take the helm, Joe. I’m going to hoist the jib.’

  The white jib billows and snaps in the wind as he hauls it up. The waves out there look a lot bigger now. But this yacht’s more than four times the size of our dayboat. She must be able to handle seas that Grandad and I could never have tackled.

  Monsieur passes me a lifejacket and harness, puts on his own and we clip ourselves onto the rail, like in Plymouth when we first sailed together. He takes the helm again. ‘I am going to radio for a weather forecast now.’

  ‘Do you want me to work the jib?’

  ‘It will be heavy going if this wind continues to rise.’

  ‘I got soaked and knackered every time me and Grandad raced in the dayboat.’

  The familiar half-smile breaks through the strain on his face. ‘You are a good crew, Joe.’ I keep the jib nice and full of air. Each time we tack, I let it swing across with the wind, slide after it and pull it in again. I remember all those times I’ve thrown myself across our dayboat, bashing my ankles, Grandad shouting, ‘Jibe Ho!’ I stare at the foaming waves beyond the harbour, seeing Grandad helming our little boat, his glasses covered with spray. The jib starts to flap; I pull it in until the telltales fly level. We pass the harbour walls. The Lisette starts to move more with the waves.

  Monsieur looks at the jagged clouds that are still bunched on the horizon. Then his eyes go upwards to the wind indicator. It’s steadier now, not swinging randomly like it was in the harbour. ‘The Met men say the wind will continue due South for the time being. But there is a weather system approaching from the North West.’

  ‘What sort of wind?’

  ‘Storm Force ten. Possibly, rising to eleven.’

  I swallow. Grandad and I capsized in a Force six. ‘That’s pretty strong isn’t it, Monsieur?’

  He stares at the horizon, his face thoughtful. His next words are nothing to do with the weather. Not at first, anyway. ‘We must get the remote from her. What are your thoughts on this, Joe?’

  ‘The remote is the only reason she’s not up here, listening in to us.’

  ‘Exactly. She is totally focused on that lethal weapon. But another lethal weapon is not far away. One she knows nothing about. It is a desperate hope but we may be able to turn that to our advantage.’

  The old walls of Marseille harbour are behind us when Monsieur calls me to the wheel, switches off the engine and goes to hoist the mainsail. I turn the yacht into the wind while the jib flaps idly. Slowly, the massive area of canvas is winched up the mast. I feel a kind of tingle as this great white sheet ripples, seeming to sense the wind that will power it. Monsieur takes the mainsail and jib. ‘Away, Joe!’

  I swing the yacht through the wind. There’s a huge CRACK as air force fills the main. It turns into a giant wing. The Lisette leaps forward through the waves. I get smacked in the face with salt water and I can’t help gasping with the thrill of it. The wind pummels my face as I feel the yacht effortlessly crest the waves and heel with the gusts; dancing through the water with this massive energy from the sea and sky.

  For an hour or more we sail steadily onwards through the Mediterranean. The waves are maybe ten feet high. They’d turn Grandad’s little boat upside down in a flash but this mighty yacht mounts them with ease. I look around for other shipping. There’s nothing ahead of us or behind. Above us, the clouds are starting to shut out the sun from time to time. But the wind remains steady, with just an occasional strong gust tilting that huge mast.

  Monsieur is watching the horizon. In the distance, I can see much larger waves now. ‘Is that the weather system, Monsieur?’

  He looks at me and back at those waves. ‘It is the kind of storm that we should run from.’

  ‘And, are we going to sail into it?’

  ‘If we turn now, she will know by the position of the sun.’

  ‘Has she sailed before then?’

  ‘From the clothes she is wearing, I doubt it. But she will notice an about turn in broad daylight.’

  ‘So, we sail on? Until it gets so bad, she wants to go back?’

  ‘Or, until we can turn without her noticing.’

  ‘It could be pretty rough by then, couldn’t it?’

  ‘We are balancing two huge risks, Joe. Arnaud’s life against all of our lives.’ As he speaks, the sun goes in. A few seconds later it re-emerges briefly. Like spotlights, a burst of sunbeams picks out the craggy waves on the horizon. White foam spills from their crests. Layers of torn black clouds race overhead. Monsieur’s voice is tense. ‘It will happen quickly now.’

  The wind stiffens. Its low thunder batters my ears. Foam flies in streaks from the tops of breaking waves ahead of us. They’re turning from blue to steel grey. I look up at the wind indicator; it’s veering from South to North West and back again.

  Monsieur starts to reef in. ‘We need to shorten the main.’ Gusts catch us from all directions. The yacht bucks and weaves. My stomach lurches as I think of Becks and Arnaud down there, with her.

  Suddenly a blast of wind blows the yacht hard over. A huge wave towers ahead of us, higher and higher. As the boat starts to right itself, the wave arcs over our heads. I stare at its green belly before it smashes down onto us. Then I can’t see anything. My hands are wrenched from th
e wheel and I slide across the deck, crashing into something. When I can see again, the whole deck is awash with foaming water. A hand grabs my arm. Monsieur hauls me up and I scramble back to the wheel. ‘Hold her steady, into the wind.’ The yacht tosses restlessly, sails thrumming, as he winches the mainsail part way down the mast and puts a couple of furls in the jib.

  The cabin hatch opens and Becks climbs out. The wind whips her hair across her face as she shouts, ‘She wants to know what’s happening!’ I can hear the sarcasm in her voice.

  ‘Tell her, if she comes out on deck, I will be happy to explain exactly what is happening!’

  ‘With pleasure, Monsieur!’

  His voice is urgent. ‘In the lockers you will find life jackets. You must all put them on.’ Becks and I exchange a brief look, before she closes the hatch behind her.

  ***

  The steady howl of the wind is like a machine that will never stop. The clouds have covered the sky so completely, it’s almost as dark as night. A fork of lightning suddenly prances on the tip of the mast.

  As we tack painfully into the North West gale, the wheel sometimes feels lifeless in my hands. The yacht fights her way up waves so huge, I can’t see the top of them. We ride through foam as she reaches the crest, then tips and rolls down into the trough. Spray stinging my eyes, all I can feel is this motion of rise, buck, fall and crash. We keep hitting waves that throw us sideways, spilling the air from the sails and stopping us dead in the water. Each time, the boat heels right over and the sails flap wildly. Heavy seas wash the deck until I’m up to my waist. Each time, I’m amazed that she comes back up. I’m soaked and frozen with salt water now. I wonder when we might be able to turn. But, how can we ever turn in this? I shout, ‘Is this Storm Force Ten or Eleven, Monsieur?’

  He doesn’t answer. He’s looking at something beyond these mountainous, foam-streaked waves. I glance in the same direction and see a cluster of lights on the horizon. It looks like a ship. The lights disappear. Maybe twenty seconds go by. Then we can see the lights again. The ship must have slid down a wave and come back up, cresting the next one. I realise how massive these waves are. And how big that ship must be. ‘She can’t see us. We’re on a collision course. We have to tack away.’