‘Oh, shit,’ she said suddenly.
The moped had taken a sharp turn off the road to disappear up a narrow lane ascending a steep hillside. Tall trees grew in neat lines on either side of the track. Lucy remembered Maria telling her that Veronique had disappeared up the mountain. She slowed down to avoid being spotted. Still Baptiste did not look round. Evidently he could not hear the noise of the car engine above the clunking of his moped as it laboured uphill. She realised he was taking her into Morne Seychellois National Park, a large area of natural forest growing up the mountains, stretching for miles. There was a network of trails for hikers, but most of it was wild territory. Someone could easily be hidden here and avoid discovery, even by police conducting an extensive search. Lucy looked around nervously. Scattered trees had given way to denser forest, dark and sinister.
‘There are no wild animals or poisonous snakes in the forests,’ her father had told her.
‘Just some crazy woman who comes down the mountain and attacks people,’ she muttered to herself.
They drove slowly up the hill, turning off the main track onto a narrower path. Lucy winced as protruding twigs and branches scraped along the side of the car. She hoped she was not damaging the vehicle to no purpose. The scratches were bound to be visible. As she wondered whether it might be better to get out and walk, she remembered the side of Baptiste’s van had been badly scratched. She pressed on. The path rose steeply. She pushed her way further through shrubbery that seemed to close in around her. Ahead, the path disappeared in overhanging branches and bushes. Although it was still daylight, the gathering mist was too thick to see more than a short distance in any direction. Lucy glanced at her phone. The sun would set soon and she wondered how she would ever find her way out of the forest in complete darkness. It was an effort to keep the car on the track. The engine whined as they carried on climbing.
The moped appeared out of the mist, propped against a tree at the side of the path, almost completely concealed in leaves. Slamming on the brakes, she shivered, wondering what would have happened if she had missed it and kept going. It would be difficult enough to turn the car around where she was. If the path grew any narrower, it might be impossible, and she could not imagine reversing back along that path in daylight, let alone at night.
Closing the car door softly, she trembled as she set off to look for her mother. She needed to be careful to avoid being seen, now that Baptiste had led her close to Veronique’s hideout. It was almost impossible to believe that anyone could harbour a grudge for over thirty years, but after everything that had happened, that seemed to be the only explanation for the note her mother had received, and her subsequent disappearance. Veronique’s hatred of George had intensified into a dangerous mania.
Without any clear idea where she was going, Lucy made her way slowly forwards. As long as she kept going upwards in a straight line, she should be able to turn back and find the car again. Whatever happened, she would return to the car before darkness fell. With the help of the headlights, she could find her way back down the mountain track. If necessary, she would return the next day, hopefully not on her own. Nervously, she felt in her pocket for her phone, but she had no signal.
The trees were overgrown, the bushes so dense she had to fight her way through them. Very little light penetrated the canopy overhead. It was hard going over ground covered in a criss-crossing maze of creepers and tree roots, interspersed with granite boulders. A few times she almost lost her footing. She had to step carefully, keeping her eyes fixed on ground increasingly difficult to see in the fading light. Pausing to catch her breath, she looked up. She could not see far ahead in the misty bushes ahead of her. It would soon be dark and she was lost, alone in the cloud forest of Morne Seychellois. A series of shrill whistles pierced the air, ringing eerily through the trees, startling her. It sounded like a bird call. It was time to return to the car before Baptiste could tell Veronique she was there.
Pausing in a small clearing, she heard a tall clump of ferns rustle nearby and froze. A heavy animal was moving around in the bushes. Her father may have told her there were no wild beasts on the island, but she remembered his story about being chased by a pack of stray dogs. She stood perfectly still, trying not to show her fear, telling herself the creature was probably tame. This was a national park where tourists went hiking.
Then she heard a hoarse voice.
‘Those who come to the mountain, die on the mountain.’
36
LUCY SCREAMED IN PANIC. She had not come here to die. Shocked by her own involuntary shriek, she summoned a fictitious team of police officers to come to her aid. ‘Bring the police dogs here!’ she shouted. ‘Over here! All of you!’
It did not help her now, to be certain of her enemy’s identity. Lucy was alone on the mountain with a woman who harboured an insane grudge against her family. All she could think of was to try and scare Veronique away. She hardly dared hope her mother was still alive, but there was no time to dwell on that.
Tripping over creepers and tree roots, she charged up a narrow path and darted in among the ferns to hide. Crouching down, she heard a twig break behind her. A shuffling footstep. Through the fronds she caught a glimpse of outstretched arms, and gnarled hands reaching out. Lucy threw herself headlong into bushes that caught at her hair and clothes, whipping at her face. Closing her eyes against the vicious bushes, she forced her way forward, feeling her way along the uneven ground. Gasping, she pressed on through tangled roots and plants. Stumbling on a rough track, she paused to consider which way to go. If she made her way back downhill she ought to be able to find the car. But Veronique might be there, waiting to intercept her.
More afraid of her pursuer than of the hostile environment, she continued climbing the track through the wild beauty of the forest. Low overhanging trees and thick bushes seemed to close in on her in the misty air as she fought her way along the narrow track, looking for somewhere to hide. Veronique could be anywhere out there, watching her. Baptiste was probably with her. They knew the terrain, while Lucy was stumbling around blindly, slipping on the leafy ground. Once in a while she spun round and waited, but there was no sound of pursuit. She began to hope she was no longer being followed.
Unexpectedly she came across deep ruts in the earth that could only have been made by tyres. Higher up, a few broken branches indicated where someone might have crashed their way through the bushes. With a shudder of excitement, she followed the tracks. They soon petered out in the dense vegetation but she pressed on, convinced she had found the right trail. It was slow going, forcing her way between the branches, but she refused to give up. She was going to find her mother. Together they would subdue Veronique, and Baptiste too, if necessary, and escape. It was like a dream. She was not even surprised when a hut appeared up ahead, shrouded in mist. Almost completely concealed by the forest, it had been constructed in the shadow of a huge granite peak that loomed above it, making it virtually impossible to spot from the air, its corrugated roof covered in thick ivy. It was the perfect place to hide a captive – or a body.
For a moment she hid in the bushes a few yards from the hut. Veronique might be waiting for her, inside. Very little light penetrated the dense canopy overhead. Catching her breath, she hurried across a clearing between the trees and tall ferns, stepping carefully over tree roots. Tense with apprehension, she slowed down as she reached the door and saw that it was bolted on the outside. Veronique could not be waiting for her in the hut. But if her mother was inside, she was a prisoner.
Lucy almost collapsed. Her legs felt weak. If she did not make her move soon, it would be too dark to see inside the hut. And at some point, Veronique would return. She might bring Baptiste with her. He was paid to do Veronique’s bidding. With a sickening lurch she realised that Veronique must be using the money George had sent her, to buy the old man’s services. If it came to it, Lucy would use her father’s money too, and she could offer to pay more than Veronique. She might be able to buy Baptis
te’s loyalty, but it was a precarious hope. Her best chance of saving her mother, and herself, was by stealth. She reminded herself that Veronique was no longer young. If her mother was there, the two of them should be able to overpower her, even if Baptiste came to her aid. He was old too.
She glanced around. All was still. Veronique could have followed her, and be waiting to slam the door as soon as Lucy went in. She had to take that chance. Her mother might be sick, locked in the hut. She might already be dead. Lucy could feel her heart palpitating as she reached out to slide the rusty bolt across, as quietly as she could. The door creaked open. She paused and held her breath, listening. There was no sound of pursuit. She stood for a second on the threshold before she went in, steeling herself to confront the nightmare.
The hut was not what she had been expecting. Dilapidated and inaccessible, no one could be living in there. Her visions of Veronique’s hospitality vanished at once. She had been an idiot to have considered that was a possibility. Peering into the darkness of the hut, she wished her father and Adrian were with her. This was not a task anyone should face alone. She was more frightened now than she had ever been, terrified of discovering her mother’s dead body. Halting just inside the low doorway, she reeled from the stench, fighting the nausea rising in her gullet. Taking shallow breaths, she looked around.
In the shadows she could see the hut was empty, apart from a crude construction in the corner: a wooden box on a plinth, covered by a white curtain. It looked like some sort of shrine. The afternoon’s trauma had achieved nothing. Her mother was not there. She had merely stumbled on a disused hut with a neglected shrine that no one visited any more. The interior of the hut was gloomy, only one corner lit by a shaft of light that streamed in through a square hole covered by a metal grid. As her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, she frowned. The floor of the hut was covered in a carpet of shrivelled petals. Sick with disappointment, she turned back towards the door.
Something stirred. Swinging around, Lucy saw a heap of rags on the ground. Moving, crawling, it rose slowly into an upright position. The face had no eyes, only an open mouth, startlingly red against the white face. The ghastly effigy tottered to its feet and she saw it was human.
‘Veronique? Are you there?’
The voice was almost unrecognisable.
Lucy let out a cry of horror. ‘Mum?’
‘Lucy? Is that you?’
Lucy ran to her mother and flung her arms around her. Always slight, her mother felt like a bundle of rags and bones. Lucy recoiled at the stench. Gently she removed her mother’s blindfold, and studied her face in the faint light from the door. Her lips were cracked, her hair dry, and she was filthy. Even her eyes looked different, swollen and filmy with tears. It was hardly the joyful reunion Lucy had anticipated, but the stinking bundle of flesh and bones crawling in the dirt was her mother just the same. She was alive. They would get through this.
‘Don’t come near me, Lucy, I’m filthy,’ her mother rasped in a dry voice.
Delicately, Lucy touched her dry lips, her inflamed eyelids, her dirty neck. She was almost unrecognisable. As Lucy carried her towards the door, their slow progress was halted abruptly. Her mother was chained to the wall.
‘Water,’ her mother whispered. ‘Water.’
Blinking away her tears, Lucy stared at her mother’s haggard face. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said stupidly. ‘Everything’s going to be all right. Thank God I found you in time.’
‘You have to get out of here before she comes back,’ her mother whispered. ‘She’ll bolt the door and you’ll be trapped. Run!’
Lucy shuddered. Now she had found her mother, she was not going to abandon her to Veronique’s insane quest for revenge. Somehow she would save her mother. But first, she needed to wedge the door open so they could not be locked in. After looking around, she ran over to the wooden shrine in the corner of the hut and began rocking the plinth with all her might. At first her effort seemed futile, but soon the massive wooden post began to shift. Standing behind it, she braced herself and pushed as hard as she could, in short strong bursts. With a loud creak, the plinth suddenly toppled over. The curtain over the box fluttered but remained in place as Lucy fell forwards. Her arm hit the edge of the wooden post but she barely noticed the pain. Only the tip of the lid of the wooden box reached the doorway. It was enough. The shrine was too heavy to be lifted easily. The door to the hut could not be closed.
Returning to her mother, she examined her shackles. A large staple was nailed firmly to the wall, holding the chain. With no tools to pick the lock open, the only way to remove it would be to smash the wood, but that would need a large hammer and an axe. All she had was her phone and car key. Lucy groaned. In the dim light, she could see a raw weal on her mother’s wrist where the metal had chafed.
Hating herself for saying it, she told her mother she might have to leave her while she went to fetch help.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
As she spoke, she heard the shuffle of footsteps. It was too late. She spun round and breathed a sigh of relief on seeing Baptiste. He might be batty, but he was innocuous, and he was poor. Lucy only had to offer him enough money, and he would help release her mother from her chains.
‘What have you done?’ he demanded, looking down at the fallen shrine.
Lucy took a step forward. In as reasonable a tone as she could muster, she explained that she had wanted to make sure the door stayed open.
‘I didn’t intend any disrespect to the shrine. We just don’t want to be locked in, and there was nothing else in here I could use. You understand that, don’t you? We were worried Veronique would lock us both in. But now you’re here, you can help us. We can pay you well. I’m sure you don’t know how my mother’s been abused. Veronique shackled her to the wall. Look!’ The chain rattled as she shook her mother’s elbow. ‘This isn’t your fight. Whatever Veronique’s playing at, she’s not thinking about you, or anyone else. Look what she did to my mother. She might just as easily turn on you. She’s crazy. But you can help us, and we’ll help you in return. We’ll pay you more money than you can imagine, as much as you want. But you have to help us get away—’
He raised his finger to his lips. ‘I will help you, if that is what she wants.’
‘Of course it’s what she wants,’ Lucy replied impatiently. ‘I mean, look at her. She’s been chained up in here for days.’
Again the old man put his finger to his lips to silence her. ‘I do my wife’s bidding.’
‘Your wife?’
He nodded. ‘She will be pleased to meet you.’
It had never occurred to Lucy that the old man was married. He had always struck her as a solitary figure.
‘Well, all right then,’ she agreed. ‘Why not? But is she nearby? Only my mother needs to be released as soon as possible. You do understand that, don’t you?’
The old man nodded his head. ‘My wife understands everything.’
In silence Lucy watched him kneel by the fallen shrine. Muttering to himself, he pulled back the curtain.
‘I have a surprise for you,’ he crooned softly, taking something out of the wooden casket. ‘The daughter has come here to see you.’ He paused as though listening. ‘Yes, they are both here.’
Lucy could not see what he was holding until he turned and rose to his feet. She barely registered the gun in his right hand.
‘Meet my wife,’ he said, with a smile. ‘This is Veronique.’
Resting in the old man’s left hand, a human skull grinned at Lucy in the fading light.
37
BAPTISTE MOVED HIS ARM until the light from the doorway fell on the skull. The shiny white surface shone brightly. He must have polished it, or perhaps he had caressed the bone for hours with his fingers, until it seemed to glow with an inner light. Lucy trembled and nearly lost her footing. The room was spinning. She thought she was going to be sick. With his back to the door, Baptiste’s face was concealed in shadows.
He took a step forward. Quivering with the movement, the skull seemed to be talking to her. She stood perfectly still, staring at it. Above the glaring empty eye sockets there was a circular aperture, less than a centimetre in diameter, its edges sharply defined. Five short cracks in the bone radiated outwards from the round hole, so that it resembled a small black sun in a child’s drawing. She gazed, spellbound by gaping holes in a skull that had once been concealed beneath living flesh, a network of soft tissues forming the face of a woman so beautiful people had called her a dark angel. The small spherical hole above the eye sockets could only have been made by a bullet. She shuddered, wondering whether there was an exit hole at the back of the skull, or if the bullet had lodged somewhere inside the brain until the soft tissue decayed.
Rigid with fear, Lucy stared at the eye sockets. It was not Veronique but Baptiste who had brought Lucy’s mother to the hut on the mountain. The whole ordeal had been Baptiste’s vendetta against her father. There was no one else involved. It was obvious now what had provoked the attacks on Lucy, on her father, and most dreadfully on her mother. A man who kept a skull for decades, treating it as a holy relic, was mad. That much was clear. What was also clear was that, like Lucy’s father, and perhaps many others, Baptiste had loved Veronique. Lucy tried to imagine the bowed old man in his youth, capable of a devotion that bordered on insanity. Veronique had vanished, just as Maria had told Lucy, but the rumours surrounding her disappearance had been false. She had never left the island. And she had not shot her husband. Instead, she was the one who had been shot in the head by the man who had kept her skull to himself all these years, the treasured skull he called Veronique.
The pieces of the puzzle were starting to make sense. Veronique had never replied to her father’s letters because she had been murdered by her jealous husband, years ago. Killing her had driven him mad, if he had not been completely insane already. Now Baptiste was determined to kill Lucy and her mother in some crazy revenge attack against her father. This was what he had been waiting for. Lucy had walked right into his trap. She swore aloud in fright as he glared at her, his eyes burning with fury. Slowly he raised his gun.
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