by Lin Anderson
If, instead, Moreaux had his eyes on a hefty pension and early retirement, then Patrick might well end up dead, or behind bars. To reassure himself, he thought of Brigitte. Perhaps she knew Moreaux better than Patrick did, or better even than Moreaux did himself. Patrick could only hope that was true.
Patrick stepped behind the landing craft as a set of headlights slowed on the road, then swung left into the car park. He watched as the car drew up some metres away and doused its lights. Moreaux obviously thought he was there first, which was to Patrick’s advantage.
He waited, checking to make sure Moreaux was in fact the only occupant. Then he heard the window roll down, saw the striking match and caught the familiar scent of Moreaux’s cheroot.
Patrick moved as swiftly as he could to the car, opened the passenger door and slid inside.
‘Like a shadow, as always.’ Moreaux turned to look at Patrick. After a moment he reached up and switched on the inside light. Now he could see Patrick’s face in all its glory. He flicked the light off again.
‘That was your blood on the walls of Les Sylphides?’
Patrick contrived to sound puzzled. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Moreaux took a draw on his cheroot. ‘Then where did you get the injuries?’
‘Someone took a pot shot at the Ferrari up near Blavet Gorges. I pulled up and got out. I managed to make the trees.’
Moreaux smiled. ‘And from there to here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who patched you up?’
‘A friend.’
Moreaux turned his gaze downhill. ‘Ah, Jean Paul, who also helped Angele Valette, I believe.’
Patrick remained silent.
‘Brigitte saw Korskof leave the graveyard just after you,’ Moreaux said.
Patrick understood now why the car had been found.
‘So we must presume it was he who fired on you.’
‘Probably,’ Patrick conceded.
‘He won’t be doing that again,’ Moreaux said. ‘Korskof’s dead. Someone broke his neck.’
Patrick stared out the window, remembering the snap and relishing it.
‘I intend to visit Chapayev’s yacht,’ Moreaux went on. ‘I would like you to come with me.’
This was the moment Patrick had been dreading. He was about to be handed over to the Russian, in payment of what? A debt? Or a hefty pension and early retirement? Jean Paul had been right. Moreaux wasn’t to be trusted.
‘Why would I do that?’ Patrick said coldly.
‘Because I intend to arrest him, but I need your help in convincing him otherwise.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
Moreaux drove Patrick back to the gunboat. They travelled in silence, having discussed the plan in full. Patrick wasn’t persuaded they were on the same side, and Moreaux made no attempt to convince him.
Moreaux’s reason for taking Chapayev into custody was clear. The Russian had overstepped the mark and had to be curtailed from inflicting further damage, which was in both their interests. Patrick agreed, but wasn’t sure that the plan to achieve this would come out in his favour.
Yet he had to admit, if only to himself, that he could not do it alone.
They arrived back around midnight. The Irish bar was in full swing, the remainder of the quai quiet. Patrick checked the outside crowd for Stephen, before exiting the car. He had no wish to engage his friend in conversation or to offer any explanation for the damage to his face, or for that matter the rest of his body.
Pulling down the walkway, he heard Oscar’s joyful snuffled bark. Patrick took some time over the small dog, noting that someone had put food and water aboard for him. He guessed Pascal, and was grateful the dog hadn’t been simply removed in his absence.
He took Oscar below, fixed himself a drink and sat down on the leather couch.
He would sleep on Moreaux’s proposal. If he decided he didn’t want to accept it, then he would have to leave Cannes, and swiftly. Moreaux would no doubt feel it necessary to question him about Korskof’s death. He had intimated as much during their lengthy and circular conversation.
If Moreaux chose not to apprehend Chapayev, the Russian would not give up on Patrick once he discovered Korskof was dead, and Patrick alive.
Debts must be repaid being his motto.
‘Mine too,’ thought Patrick as he stretched out on the couch, rather than drag himself into the bedroom and a proper bed.
He woke as the early morning light found the portholes. The warmth on his face was pleasant and he strove to enjoy that moment before wakening fully and facing the day. This time standing had become easier. He put on the coffee pot, but chose not to venture out for fresh croissants, and made a cooked breakfast instead. He ate first, then went through to the bathroom to wash and take a good look at the damage.
Viewing himself in the full-length mirror, he took stock. He didn’t care how bad he looked, but he did care if he thought his body wasn’t up to the job ahead. The wound in his leg had knitted well together. Jean Paul had been correct when he’d declared it superficial. The nick in his arm from the earlier bullet wound sustained on board the Heavenly Princess looked fine. There was a great deal of bruising on his upper body, but most of the blood splattering in that room had come from head cuts, particularly one to the back of his head.
Jean Paul had patched him up well. He still resembled a boxer who’d gone too many rounds, but he was free, unfettered and could look at the sky any time he wanted. Patrick dressed and returned to the galley where he poured another coffee, added a tot of whisky to it and swallowed two painkillers of sufficient strength to let him believe he endured no pain.
Then he and Oscar went out on deck.
Patrick chose a seat at the stern looking out over the marina to await Moreaux’s call. The dive boat had already departed and with it any concerns he’d had about meeting Stephen. Moreaux had indicated that both Chevalier and Brigitte were worried at his disappearance, but he hadn’t told either of them about finding the Ferrari. Word would get out soon enough that the car was his, but they had a small window of time, at least.
‘The less people know, the easier it will be to resume normal life,’ Moreaux had said with conviction.
Patrick wondered if he would ever be able to resume normal life as he had known it here on the gunboat, in Cannes, whatever happened.
Moreaux called him at ten on the alternative mobile number Patrick had given him, and arranged to pick him up shortly for their journey to Monaco.
Moreaux was a skilled driver, with a liking for speed similar to his own. It wasn’t the only similarity. They differed in age, and a liking for cheroots, but Patrick recognized something of himself in the stern countenance of the man who sat beside him.
Moreaux was a serving policeman, and as such had to be seen to uphold the law, but that did not mean he always did. Moreaux made his decisions based on what served Moreaux, his welfare and his own moral code. And as in Patrick’s previous occupation, personal morality was often at odds with the requirements of the job.
Patrick found it interesting that Monaco should be the location of the end game. Sold as a luxurious destination for the rich, it was little more than a concrete jungle of high-value real estate, a tax haven for the super rich, squashed into two square kilometres. Beauty it had none, except perhaps for the palace gardens, which was the image most often used to attract the tourists.
Moreaux headed for the harbour, parking in a reserved spot. Patrick wondered just how often the lieutenant visited the place. That wasn’t the only surprise, as Moreaux indicated Patrick should follow him down a walkway to a speedboat that bore the name Michelle. It seemed the rumours surrounding the wealth of Moreaux’s wife might well be true. Or else, Moreaux had an extra income from somewhere.
Moreaux made no attempt to explain, just informed Patrick that the black yacht was anchored in the bay and that Chapayev was expecting him. Patrick wasn’t sure whether his use of the word ‘him’ rather than ‘them�
� should cause him concern, or bring relief.
The journey out there took twenty minutes, during which Patrick visited the toilet. Once inside he checked on the knife he carried, as well as his gun, retrieved from Les Trois Soeurs. He wanted to be ready for all eventualities, of which he feared there were many.
Whatever Moreaux decided to do, Patrick had his own itinerary.
As he resurfaced, Moreaux was already drawing alongside the platform. He secured the motorboat and jumped out, indicating Patrick should follow. Patrick climbed out more gingerly, having no wish to reveal what state he was really in.
There was no waiting reception for them on the lower deck. Moreaux strode ahead as though he knew this boat well and was welcome aboard it. For a man who had only been here once for dinner, he appeared a little too knowledgeable.
Chapayev awaited them in the stateroom.
He greeted Moreaux as ‘Lieutenant’ and wished him good day. His attitude was affable with not the remotest indication that he was nonplussed by their appearance. He then turned his attention to Patrick.
‘I see my part-time waiter has returned.’
‘From the dead,’ Patrick said.
‘I, too, have had a brush with death,’ Chapayev reminded him.
There was a moment’s standoff before Moreaux took charge.
‘We found your man Korskof in a villa called Les Sylphides. His neck was broken.’
This was news to Chapayev by the look on his face. His eyes darted from Moreaux to Patrick and back again, suspicion blossoming.
He was reassured by Moreaux’s next remark.
‘We believe this man was responsible for his death.’
Patrick’s hand was already reaching for his gun, but Moreaux was faster. Patrick felt the press of metal in his side.
‘As agreed, I hand over Courvoisier on the understanding that your interest in Cannes and its inhabitants is at an end.’
Chapayev smiled. ‘I have a lot invested as you know. It would make us both the poorer, I think.’
‘Nevertheless, that was the deal,’ Moreaux said.
Patrick’s brain was in overdrive. This was similar to the plan Moreaux had outlined, but sufficiently different to make him worried. Very worried.
‘And what of Courvoisier’s disappearance?’ Chapayev said.
‘Le Limier comes and goes. All of Cannes knows that. Except on this occasion he will not return.’
Chapayev was growing more relaxed by the moment.
‘There is the little matter of the three diamonds he still has in his possession.’
‘They are forfeit,’ Moreaux said.
‘And the black pearl?’ Chapayev said, looking to Patrick.
‘You indicated it had been recovered,’ Moreaux said.
Now this was news to Patrick.
As though on cue, the far door of the stateroom opened and a woman walked in. She was dressed in dark-blue silk, the pearl hanging round her neck. Angele was as beautiful as ever, although her eyes had the look of someone heavily sedated.
‘Ah, Angele. Look who has come to visit us.’
If she recognized Patrick, Angele didn’t show it. Chapayev caught her and drew her to him, cradling her in the crook of his arm. His big hand rose up to catch her breast. If his grip was painful, she didn’t register it, her pupils big with whatever substance she’d chosen to take, or he had administered.
‘The movie has done very well. It is going to make Angele a star,’ he told them.
Moreaux seemed unaffected by Angele’s appearance and Patrick wondered whether he’d known all along that she would be there.
‘So,’ Chapayev said. ‘It is time to make a decision, Lieutenant. All those dignitaries you mingled with on the Heavenly Princess. How would they react if you ban me from Cannes? He paused for a moment to allow time for his words to sink in. ‘There is, of course, an alternative solution. We dispose of Monsieur de Courvoisier. You return to your police station and life continues as normal.’
As Moreaux appeared to contemplate this, Patrick felt the pressure of the barrel lessen on his side, while Moreaux muttered something in Cannois.
Patrick took him at his word and slipped his hand in his pocket, just as Chapayev sensed a change in Moreaux’s demeanour. He pulled Angele in front of him as the gun which was pressed in Patrick’s side was raised to point at Chapayev.
The sequence of movements all took place in a matter of seconds.
Angele, too drugged to figure out what was happening, stared at them with startled eyes, like someone disturbed in their sleep.
‘Don’t be a fool, Lieutenant. If you take me in, I will implicate you. Your career will be over. If we let him go, Courvoisier will do the same.’
Patrick eased his hand into his pocket to clasp his weapon of choice. The UK-SFK knife hadn’t seen the light of day since he’d arrived in Cannes, but fitted as well in his hand as it had always done.
‘You have no choice, Lieutenant,’ Chapayev was saying. ‘You cannot kill me and get away with it. Come, let us both dispose of this nuisance, and continue as normal.’
Sensing Moreaux’s hesitation, Chapayev levelled his gun at the policeman’s head as a figure appeared in the doorway. It was henchman number two, armed and ready to finish the conversation in whatever way Chapayev wanted it to go.
Patrick had waited long enough.
The speed and accuracy of the throw was as soundless as it was deadly. The thin-edged blade embedded itself firmly between Chapayev’s eyes, just as his gun went off. The bullet skiffed Moreaux’s cheek as he threw himself sideways and let off a volley towards the doorway. For a moment the stateroom resounded to Angele’s screams and the thud of bullets burying themselves in the walls.
Then it was over.
Patrick, his gun out now, surveyed the damage. The gunman had taken a shot in the chest that didn’t appear fatal. Chapayev lay on his back, staring upwards in startled death. Angele, released from Chapayev’s arms, curled on the ground beside his body, weeping silently.
Patrick moved swiftly, first to remove his knife from Chapayev’s brain, then to block both doors to the stateroom in preparation for the next onslaught. Just then he heard the deafening scream of a police siren, followed by another, as two launches swept into view.
He crossed to Moreaux and helped the policeman to his feet.
‘Who are they coming for?’ Patrick said, still unsure how this would end.
‘Not for you, Courvoisier,’ Moreaux said with a grim smile.
TWENTY-NINE
The rain came on as they left the marina, falling in torrents as they met the race track route used in the Grand Prix. Steep concrete walls rose on either side of them, channelling the downpour on to the road surface, reminding Patrick of racing along a storm drain in Los Angeles.
Moreaux drove at speed, surface water flying from his wheels, his flashing blue light causing drivers to give way before them.
Patrick sensed the adrenaline running through the policeman’s veins, recognizing the same in himself. They had both faced death and survived. Life could never taste sweeter than it did at such a moment.
They were back in Cannes in record time. Moreaux drew up alongside Les Trois Soeurs, light still flashing, causing all the lunchtime drinkers outside the Irish bar to stare at them. A few more emerged to see what was going on, but thankfully Stephen wasn’t among them.
When Patrick climbed out of the car, Moreaux immediately took off without a word of farewell. During the return journey the policeman had said nothing. The silence between them had been as full as a conversation.
Moreaux had seen the knife. Had witnessed Patrick use it. Moreaux now knew more about him than Patrick would ever have willingly volunteered.
Patrick had been present at the conversation between Moreaux and Chapayev. He now knew more about the policeman than Moreaux would be comfortable with. It would have been better for Moreaux had Patrick died during the incident.
Both had had secrets revealed
that should have remained hidden, and both were now in one another’s debt.
And debts always have to be repaid, Patrick thought, as he climbed aboard the gunboat and greeted his excited little dog.
THIRTY
Later that evening, showered and changed, his wounds treated via the medical kit, Patrick took a stroll to Le P’tit Zinc with Oscar, hoping to catch Chevalier at his aperitif.
Chevalier wasn’t there, but Moreaux was, with a glass of red wine in front of him.
‘Ah, Courvoisier. I see you have recovered from being shot at.’
‘Thanks to you.’
Moreaux indicated that he should sit.
‘Your assailant has been apprehended, the one that was left alive. He will face prison for attacking a lone driver in our beautiful Provence countryside.’ Moreaux assumed a deeply offended expression. ‘Naturellement, the story will not be reported on. We do not want to scare away the tourists from Cannes or Blavet Gorges.’
Moreaux went on: ‘My men tell me you drive very fast, too fast for those country roads. Speed can kill, Courvoisier.’ He gave a thin-lipped smile.
‘I owe you one, Moreaux.’
The lieutenant acknowledged this with a small nod and reached for his glass. The gold ring from Bijou Magique suited him well. Patrick wondered which of his women was wearing its mate.
‘I am sorry that Chapayev died,’ Moreaux continued.
‘Really?’ Patrick kept his voice even.
‘Had he not, I would have charged him with smuggling diamonds.’ Moreaux shrugged. ‘However, we have picked up his accomplice. A Mr Jacob Haruna, a Nigerian with interests in Zimbabwe. He was on board the Heavenly Princess. You may have seen him and his wife at the dinner party where you were serving as a waiter.’
‘It was an interesting party.’
Moreaux nodded. ‘If I were you, I would not mention the names of the other guests. They are important people and would not want their names mixed up with a Russian diamond smuggler.’