by Leah Hope
“Gil, do you remember that time we went to Wales with Mum and Dad, I think I was about thirteen and you would have been about eleven. We went to the beach one day and a family came and sat near us. I was reading a book so wasn’t paying much attention until I heard the little boy speaking French to his mother. I remember thinking, how nice, a French family coming to this part of the country. Then a few minutes later I heard him speak perfect English to his little sister, she was about three, and I thought I must have misheard, they’re not French after all. Anyway, when the father came back after his swim, he spoke English to the children but French to their mother.”
“I remember, but what’s the point of all this?” asked Gil asked, puzzled as to where this story was going.
“They were bilingual, the mother was French and the father was English and the children could speak both languages. Don’t you see, Nick could be bilingual too!”
“But if you’re right Bridget, why hide it?” Pete asked.
“I don’t know Pete, I wish I did. But don’t you think it’s odd that someone who’s worked in France for almost a year can hardly speak a word of the language? He always making such a big thing about how bad his French is, isn’t he? The more I think of it, the more I’m convinced it was all an act, to put us off the scent.”
“Whoa, steady on, the scent of what? Jeez Bridget I’m doing my best to stay with you but I don’t mind admitting you’ve lost me there girl” said Pete shaking his head.
“I don’t know, I don’t know!” said Bridget, who was getting increasingly exasperated, not so much with Pete but at her own inability to get to the bottom of things.
“You’ve known Nick for some time Pete, did he ever mention that one of his parents were French?” Gil asked, trying to follow Bridget’s train of thought.
“No, he didn’t. He talked about his childhood a bit, he grew up in the east end of London. His old man used to take him to watch Spurs on a Saturday afternoon and I used to tease him that they were a bunch of girls and wouldn’t last five minutes against an Aussie Rules side, that really got him going. Come to think of it, I spoke to his old man once on the phone, back in Oz. It was Nick’s birthday and he rang up to speak to him but he must have got the time difference wrong as it was six in the morning. I was up early as I was going for a run but Nick was still in his pit, so I asked him to call back later. He seemed a decent sort of bloke, Alan I think Nick said his name was, had his own joinery business, did alright for himself I think.”
“What did he sound like?” ask Bridget.
“He had a real strong cockney accent, he definitely wasn’t French if that’s what you’re getting at,” said Pete.
“Well that narrows it down, if his father isn’t French then his mother must be. Did he ever mention his mother’s name?”
Pete thought for a moment. “I think it’s Rita, yes Alan and Rita, you can’t get much more English than that.”
“Yes of course, we overheard Nick relaying a conversation between his father and mother a few days ago and he definitely said her name was Rita. Oh well, that’s another blank we’ve drawn,” said Bridget.
Bridget’s disappointment was palpable. Then a thought suddenly flashed into her mind.
“But what if it’s short for something, Rita I mean? Like Genevieve, Max Faulkner’s fiancée, it’s unmistakably a French name, but when she shortens it to Genni, it sounds English. What if Nick’s mother’s full name is Marguerite? That’s one of the names Béatrice Blanchard mentioned when she was talking about a scandal that happened here in the past. That’s got to be it, Nick’s mother is Marguerite and she’s French!”
“Steady on Bridge, that’s a bit of a quantum leap you’ve made there. I’m not saying you’re wrong but talk about putting two and two together and coming up with 110! Besides, why should he keep it a secret?” said Gil. “That’s the bit that doesn’t make any sense to me at all.”
“Me neither mate!” added an increasingly bewildered Pete.
“I don’t know, that’s what I haven’t worked out yet but…”
Bridget’s voice trailed off as the door from reception suddenly burst open and a flustered looking Nicole burst in. She made straight for Pete, gesticulating wildly and speaking in rapid French.
“Whoa, whoa, slow down,” Pete said in English before allowing Nicole to continue. After a brief conversation between the two, Pete turned to Gil and Bridget, his face suddenly pale and anxious.
“Houston, I think we’ve got a bit of a problem. Nicole here’s just been to Nick’s room to give it a bit of a clean, she’s not supposed to, staff are meant to clean their own room, but it seems as if he charmed her into giving it the once over every now and again. Anyway, she says his room’s empty.”
“What do you mean, empty?” Bridget shrieked.
“He’s taken all his stuff, apart from a couple of books and a few bits and pieces. The room’s empty, he’s gone, scarpered.”
Bridget’s mind was working overtime now and although he wouldn’t have admitted it, Gil’s was too.
“But wait, wait,” said Bridget turning to Pete, her mind spinning as she struggled to make sense of what Pete had said, “didn’t you say that Nick didn’t show up for his shift this morning?”
“Yes, that’s right, I didn’t think too much of it as he’s done it before recently, he usually turns up eventually and I make sure he makes his hours up. He didn’t stay here last night though, he was staying over at Aurelie’s, that’s his girlfriend, he does that a couple of times a week. Anyway, when he hadn’t shown up by ten, I rang his mobile but it went straight to voicemail. I left him a couple of messages but he hasn’t got back to me. I tried Aurelie’s number just before you arrived Bridget but her phone was switched off too.”
“But why didn’t you tell me that Pete?” Bridget demanded. “It could be very important.”
“Tell you what exactly, that one of my bar staff hadn’t turned up for his shift? Hardly the crime of the century is it!”
“There has to be a connection between Nick’s disappearance and Agnès’, Pete, tell me exactly when you last saw Nick,” said Bridget, ignoring Pete’s nonchalance.
Pete scratched his head before replying.
“Yesterday afternoon, after lunchtime service. Nick asked if he could have the rest of the day off as it was Aurelie’s birthday and he still hadn’t got her a present, typical of him. It was his evening off anyway and he said he wanted to get her something really special. I must be going soft in my old age as I agreed. It wasn’t just for Nick though, Aurelie’s father’s a big investor in this place so it pays to keep him and his family sweet.”
“And that’s the last time you saw him?” Bridget asked, her eyes now shining brilliantly with animation and firmly fixed on Pete.
“Yes, like I just said.”
“You don’t suppose Nick was Agnès Dubreuil’s mystery man, do you?” said Gil. “That might explain why they’ve both disappeared.”
“Nah, I can’t see it. She’s not bad looking for her age but I think she’s a bit long in the tooth for Nick,” said Pete, dismissing Gil’s theory. “Some men have a thing for older women but I don’t think Nick is one of them. You only have to look at Aurelie, I don’t think she’s much more than twenty.”
“Oh Gil, I really don’t like the sound of this at all. I think we should go to the police straight away,” said Bridget, who was now in a state of obvious panic.
Gil now had to concede that Nick’s disappearance on top of Agnès’ was worrying.
“Ok then, there were dozens of Gendarmes milling around when I arrived, let’s go and speak to one of them. Pete, can you come with us to translate?”
“Sure thing mate,” said Pete, following Gil and Bridget outside but the square was almost deserted.
“Where’ve they all gone?” shouted Bridget, desperately looking around. “There’s no-one here!”
“Blast, I’ve just remembered one of my Gendarmes mates saying something about a b
ig debriefing this afternoon over at Chateau-Clermont, reviewing all the evidence or something, they must have already left,” said Pete.
“What are we going to do now?” asked Gil.
“There’s only one thing for it, run and get the car Gil, we’re going up to the lake!” Bridget yelled.
Chapter Twenty-One
Gil didn’t argue with his sister and ran back to the house as fast as he could. Minutes later he screeched to a halt in the Mercedes outside the Mirabeau where Bridget stood waiting anxiously with Pete.
“What took you so long?” she shouted as she jumped into the passenger seat,
“You’re joking aren’t you, I nearly broke the world record running back to the house, I thought I was going to collapse!” said a very breathless Gil.
Pete poked his head through the open window next to Bridget. “I’m really sorry I can’t come with you guys but I’m here on my own until Francoise arrives.”
“That’s alright Pete, just keep your phone on, we’ll call you if we need police back-up,” said Gil.
“Yeah, you make sure you do, you’re not Bonnie and Clyde remember!” he yelled but the Mercedes was already speeding away out of the square.
“If anything’s happened to that woman I’ll never forgive myself,” said Bridget.
“But it’s not your fault, besides, we don’t know that anything has happened to her yet. We’re probably making complete idiots of ourselves rushing up there like this.”
“I only hope you’re right, but Pete’s got her mobile don’t forget so if she was in trouble she couldn’t even call for help.”
“Try not to worry, I’m sure everything’s going to be fine.”
But Bridget’s mind was still in overdrive, desperately trying to make the connection between Nick and Agnès Dubreuil and no amount of reassuring words from Gil could convince her that everything was in fact fine.
“Who is she Gil, what has she got to do with Nick? I’m certain Marguerite is his mother, but how does that fit in with Bernard Sellier? Maybe it doesn’t, maybe I’m looking for something that’s not there. But Béatrice Blanchard thought there was a link, or is she just a confused old woman? And where does Martha Clifford fit in, I’d almost forgotten about her? This thing has got me beat Gil,” Bridget said, letting out a huge sigh.
“Me too, it’s got more twists than a stick of barley sugar.”
They were almost at the lake now and it dawned on Bridget that she had no idea what she was looking for or what she expected to find. After all, Agnès had gone to the lake the previous day, they were hardly likely to find her sitting at a picnic table or out in a pedalloe.
Then, for no apparent reason, the image of Bernard Sellier in the newspaper that Agnès had borrowed suddenly flashed into Bridget’s mind. “Stop the car Gil!” she said suddenly. “Stop the car!”
“Why? What for? We’re nearly there!”
“I’ve been so stupid,” Bridget said, running her hands through her hair, “so stupid, it all fits, why didn’t I see it before?”
“See what? I don’t understand, what do you mean?”
“The connection between Nick Webster and Sellier. He was his father, Gil, Bernard Sellier was his father, I’m certain of it, there’s no other explanation that fits. But what I don’t understand is why did he kill him?”
“Kill him, you really think Nick killed him?” By now, Gil didn’t know whether to be impressed by his sister’s detective work or to be furious with her for coming to such a ridiculous conclusion.
“Oh yes, I’m certain of it, and Martha Clifford as well. Gil, he’s killed twice, please don’t let him have killed Agnès as well.”
“But why should he, who is she?”
“I don’t know, but she’s connected with all of this somehow, but we’re wasting time, come on, we’ve got to find her, I just hope we’re in time.”
It was almost six when they pulled into the little car-park next to the lake. Mothers with young children who had spent the afternoon splashing about in the sunshine were making their way home. It was too early yet for the teenagers to arrive, they would come after they had eaten at home and would gather in groups to talk, drink and do what teenagers everywhere do these days. Apart from a couple of customers lingering over their last drink at the café before heading home, the place was deserted.
Bridget carefully scanned the scene in front of her looking for any signs of Agnès. Her eyes darted from the car-park to the picnic tables in the trees and then to the lake itself and the grassy areas around it, finally coming to rest on the café. There was no sign of Agnès or Nick or anything to suggest they had ever been there. But what signs could there have been? They would simply have been two people visiting the lake just like dozens of others in the course of a day. They would have come and gone without a trace. Bridget knew it was hopeless and for the first time in all of this, her emotions gave way to her and she started to cry.
“Come on love,” Gil said, putting his arm around her shoulder, “let’s not give up yet, we haven’t had a good look yet. You go around that way, and I’ll go this way and we’ll meet up at the far end,” he said, directing his sister to his left.
Bridget’s route took her to the café where a waiter was wiping down the now empty tables, ready for the orders of beer, chips and cola that would come flooding in when Saint-Rémy’s teenage population descended. She popped inside the café and into the ladies’ toilet but both were completely empty. Then she walked behind the café where the bins were stacked. She took the lids off and quickly recoiled at the smells of stale food which leapt out at her. Nothing. There was no-where else to look in her section of the search area that Gil had designated to her so she made her way around the lake to meet him. She could see him now, he was still in the picnic area looking around the tables, behind bushes and opening the lids of the litter bins that were dotted around.
“Anything?” Bridget shouted, when she got within earshot.
“No nothing at all, what about you?”
“Nothing, the place is deserted.”
Bridget sat down on a bench and looked down into the shallow water which lapped gently just beyond her feet. “I hope you’re not in there Agnès,” she said quietly to herself, “oh please don’t be in there.” Gil completed the search of his half of the lakeside area and sat down next to his sister.
“What do we do now Gil? I was sure we would find something, anything to indicate that she had been here.”
Gil was at a loss, he didn’t know what to say or do. He was as anxious as Bridget now and try as he might to dredge up some reassuring words, none came. Feelings of helplessness welled up inside; he was desperate to help not only Agnès but his sister who he knew was suffering great swathes of guilt over the mobile phone incident. Brother and sister sat silently staring into the water, where a couple of ducks had now gathered in anticipation of some tasty morsel for their supper. Gil swivelled around on the bench, his eyes surveying the scene beyond the lake. His eyes darted back and fore. Nothing. Suddenly, he leapt to his feet, almost knocking Bridget off her seat.
“Come on,” he said, with a renewed sense of urgency, “there’s still one place we haven’t looked!”
By now, Gil was running towards the old hut, which stood about thirty metres from the edge of the lake. Bridget puffed and panted after him, struggling to keep up. Gil was at the hut now. The front of the hut, which would have folded down to make a counter top when it had been in use, was boarded up. Gil walked around the back where there was a door and a small window. The door was padlocked and there were no signs that it had been forced open. He peered through the dirty pane of glass, which had miraculously avoided being broken, but it was too dark to see inside. By now, Bridget had arrived, out of breath.
“Can you see anything Gil?” she asked anxiously.
“No, it’s too dark.”
Bridget stood on tip-toes and peered inside, shielding her eyes to try to get a better view.
“We’ll ju
st have to break the glass,” she said, looking round for something suitable to use as a tool.
“We can’t do that,” said Gil with alarm, “we’ll be done for vandalism!”
“Don’t be silly Gil, someone’s life could be at stake here,” said Bridget who had by now found a large stone and was taking aim at the glass.
“Give it to me, you’ll cut yourself to ribbons!” said Gil, taking the stone out of her hands. “Now stand back.”
He put his left arm over his face and turned his head away and smashed the pane of glass with the stone he held in his other hand. He cleared away some jagged shards of glass, which were sticking out like daggers from the edges of the window pane, and leaned over to look inside.
“Can you see anything, is she there?” asked Bridget frantically.
As his eyes got used to the darkness, Gil was able to make out what looked like a bundle of rags on the floor in one corner of the hut.
“There’s something, but I can’t quite make it out. Why didn’t we think to bring a torch!”
Summoning all his strength, Gil stood on tip toes and heaved himself off the ground so that he was almost leaning inside the hut. He let out a gasp. On the floor, wearing a coral dress and olive green shoes, he could make out the body of a woman. Her hands and feet were bound and a dirty old rag had been stuffed into her mouth.
“She’s here Bridget, she’s here!” Gil yelled.
“Oh, thank god, is she alright, let me see,” said Bridget, trying to jump up to get a better look.
“Agnès, Agnès,” she shouted, “can you hear me? It’s alright, we’re going to get you out.”
There was no response.
“Gil, get on to Pete right now and tell him to get the police and an ambulance, oh and the fire brigade too, and for god’s sake tell them to hurry!”
Gil moved away to make the call while Bridget continued to shout through the window. “Oh, please let her be alright!” she said out loud. Suddenly Bridget heard a noise, a small muffled sort of a sound. She held her breath as she listened intently, hoping the sound would come again. And there it was, but this time Agnès moved her head as well, just slightly, but it was enough.