Dead Line (13 page)

Trent decided to drive back towards Aix in the battered Peugeot. It was a risk. A sizeable one. Seeing the car might remind Alain to run the plates. He’d discover they were fakes. But he might choose to do it anyway and there were explanations Trent could provide. He could claim that the dummy plates had been part of the original security test he’d devised, or his way of avoiding being tracked by the criminal gangs he’d frustrated in recent months.

Better to be brazen, he reasoned. Act as if he had nothing to conceal. But there were a couple of things he could do to make things easier on himself. First, he secured his Beretta beneath the steering column with a swatch of duct tape and then he stashed the rest of his abduction equipment in the boxroom in his apartment. Second, he beached the Peugeot in the same spot where it had ended up following the attack on Jérôme. He walked the rest of the way to the Moreau estate with a canvas satchel slung over his shoulder, sweating in the relentless noontime sun, breathing in the familiar scents of warm earth and heated tarmac and wild herbs, his skin tightening and burning, his socks damp with perspiration inside his boots.

The cameras swivelled and tracked his progress from the extreme edge of the property. They monitored him closely, one after the other. He didn’t bother with the intercom when he reached the gate. He just stood in the exact centre of the road and waited for the cameras to zero in on him. He picked the left one. Lifted his face to it and stared blankly into the lens. He didn’t smile. Didn’t raise a hand. Just waited, arms loose by his sides in the stillness and the heat, until the camera jerked a fraction. A moment later he heard an electric buzz and the gate dropped on its hinges and swung inwards.

Nobody came to greet him.

Trent walked alone under the watchful gaze of the surveillance equipment. He ascended the steep gravel rise, passing through the narrow fingers of shade being thrown across his path from the double line of cypress trees, scanning the grounds for a glimpse of the rickety cabin.

He was over the crest and in sight of the house when he heard a dull
thump
and caught sight of a streak of white in the corner of his vision. He turned his head. Locked onto the racing object.

A golf ball.

It had bounced on the striped lawn and kicked on and fallen again and then trundled to a halt not far from where he was standing. There were more balls near by, scattered in a loose grouping across the neatly trimmed grass like a constellation of fallen stars.

Trent kept walking. Thirty seconds. A minute. Then another ball looped down from above and struck the ground and pitched up and bounced on before losing momentum and skittering to a halt.

There was no shout of warning. No concern for his safety.

He crossed the driveway to the opposite side. Within a hundred metres more he was able to watch Philippe take aim at another projectile. He swung hard and removed a chunk of turf as he sent the ball zinging wildly by.

Philippe wasn’t dressed for golf. He was wearing oversized sunglasses with white plastic frames, a pair of blue swimming shorts and his canvas boat shoes. His body was slim and wiry with the beginnings of a swell around the belly. He glanced up at Trent as he approached but he didn’t wave or nod or otherwise acknowledge him. He simply lowered his face and gathered in another ball with his golf club.

The club was a four or five iron, Trent reckoned, but it was obvious Philippe was no golfer. His stance was wrong, face onto the ball, with his right foot in front of the left, like a swordsman about to lunge at an opponent. His grip was low down on the metal shaft, beneath the rubber handle, and his swing was an awkward, truncated affair that snapped up from the hip and ended at the shoulder, then chopped downwards again. But his makeshift technique was matched with plenty of aggression and the ball zipped fast into the air, then hooked wildly to the left.

‘Put me off,’ Philippe mumbled, once Trent was within earshot.

Trent glanced down at the slashed dirt and grassy divots that littered the area. He didn’t say anything.

Philippe rolled a golf ball beneath the matted sole of his espadrille. A chilled beer bottle was propped against a pristine white leather golf bag that had been slung to the ground near by.

‘What’s your handicap?’ Trent asked.

‘I don’t have one. I don’t play.’

Trent raised an eyebrow.

‘This is Jérôme’s bag.’ Philippe tapped the white leather with the end of his club, nearly upsetting his lager.

Jérôme’s bag
. Odd. Wouldn’t it have been more natural for him to say that the clubs belonged to his father?

‘I had to get out of that room.’ Philippe gazed down at his feet. ‘Had to take a break. Understand?’

‘Who’s in there now?’

‘Jérôme’s wife.’

Not
maman
, this time. That was something, at least.

‘Then I’ll leave you to your game,’ Trent said. He wasn’t looking at Philippe any more. He was staring pointedly at the tall bottle of iced lager. ‘Should I have Alain bring you some coffee?’

Trent saw the tendons in Philippe’s bronzed arms tighten and pop. His knuckles swelled around the shaft of the golf club. Trent steadied himself, rehearsing the moves he’d need to make to defend himself.

But Philippe didn’t lash out. He just gazed up slowly, eyes hooded, a sly smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

‘He’s waiting to speak with you,’ he said.

‘Good.’ Trent nodded, businesslike. ‘We need to talk.’

The front door opened before Trent had passed Philippe’s sports car and the wrecked Mercedes and the circular fountain. Alain filled the doorway, his fists on his hips. He wore a white linen short-sleeved shirt over grey trousers. There was no sign of his Ruger or his gun holster, but Alain’s brow was low and knotted, his pose aggressive. He folded his big arms across his chest.

‘What’s in the bag?’ he asked.

‘Take a look.’

Trent swung the satchel down from his shoulder and held it out to him by the strap. Alain snatched it and hauled back the flap. He lowered his head inside like a horse burrowing into a nosebag.

Trent kept moving. He shoved his way past Alain until he was standing in the entrance hall. The air was many degrees cooler. He felt his clothes settle against his clammy body. Felt the heat leach out from his skin.

‘It’s the recording equipment I told you about,’ Trent said, over his shoulder. ‘And the prepaid phone you took from me before. That’s all.’

The foyer was empty. It was silent. The door to the security room was ajar on his left. Light was spilling out of it onto the marble tiles and he could glimpse some of the security monitors. To his right, he could see along the glazed and sunlit corridor towards Jérôme’s study. The double doors were open.

‘Did you speak with the housekeeper?’ Trent asked.

‘I talked to her.’

‘And?’

‘It was as I said. She has no involvement in any of this. No knowledge that can help us.’

‘How can you be sure?’

Alain grunted. ‘Because I am. That’s all you need to know.’

He stepped around Trent and pressed the bag into his chest.

‘Thought you trusted me now,’ Trent said.

‘Arms up.’

‘You’re serious?’

Alain snarled. His nostrils flared. He was serious. No question.

Trent raised his arms until they were parallel with his shoulders, the satchel clenched in his right hand. Alain swooped in and patted along his arms and down his torso.

‘Where’s your car?’ he asked, feeling around Trent’s waist.

Trent told him. He said he’d left it out on the road near where they’d been attacked. Said he’d parked there because he’d wanted to take a look around and study the plateau the gang had come at them from. Said he hadn’t found anything of interest beyond some tyre treads that weren’t capable of telling them more than they already knew about the Land Cruiser.

Alain straightened and turned Trent around by the shoulders. He patted down his legs from behind.

‘Why did you walk here from there?’ he asked, his voice fast and rough, like his hands.

‘I wanted to scan the roadside. See if anything had been left behind. I thought maybe if we were lucky one of the gang might have tossed something out of the Land Cruiser after they collected Serge. Plus I wanted some air. Some exercise. I don’t know how long I’m going to be holed up here. Are we done?’

‘We’re just getting started. I have some questions for you.’

Alain tapped Trent’s shin and made him raise his leg. He tugged at his laces, but before he could remove his boot, a door opened behind them. Both men turned.

‘What’s going on here?’

Stephanie was wearing a black leotard over white tights. The tights were cut to expose her heels and toes. Pink leg warmers were bunched up around her ankles. She held a pair of ivory ballet shoes in one hand, silk ribbons coiling downwards. A light cotton towel was fitted around her neck and she was using one end to mop her damp brow.

Her face was flushed. She was perspiring heavily. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun but frizzy strands corkscrewed out from her temples. She was breathing heavily. Her chest was rising and falling in an exaggerated way. Trent could see the outline of her ribs against the snug black Lycra as she inhaled.

He knew he should avert his gaze but his eyes wouldn’t shift.

No two ways about it – she was stunning. It wasn’t often since he’d met Aimée that any woman made this kind of an impression on him. But Stephanie had.

‘Alain?’ she asked, and mopped her face some more. ‘What’s the meaning of this?’

Alain pushed up from the floor. Contemplated his knuckles. He didn’t respond.

‘It’s OK,’ Trent told her. ‘He’s watching out for your safety. He’s just doing his job.’

Stephanie pressed the towel to her mouth. She glanced between them both. Alain still didn’t speak. But the sideways look he gave Trent wasn’t hard to interpret. He was furious.

‘Who’s monitoring the phone?’ Trent asked.

‘I’ve been listening for it,’ Stephanie told him. ‘Alain, too.’

‘Have there been any calls?’

Stephanie hitched an eyebrow at Alain.

‘None from the gang,’ he muttered. ‘A few from some men M. Moreau has business with.’

‘What are their names?’

‘I can’t tell you that.’

‘They could be involved in Jérôme’s abduction.’

‘They’re not. There’s no chance of that at all.’

Trent paused. Swallowed his irritation. ‘And what did you tell these men?’

‘That M. Moreau was unwell. That he could not speak with them.’

‘They believed you?’

He shrugged. He was studying the floor.

‘OK,’ Trent said. ‘That’s good. We don’t need any more complications.’

His words weren’t subtle. They weren’t intended to be. Alain snorted and shook his head. Trent didn’t care. Things were going just the way he needed them to. He was striking the perfect tone. He was coming across as reasonable. As concerned. He felt sure that Stephanie was viewing him that way.

He lifted the satchel. ‘I have some recording equipment to rig up,’ he told her. ‘I was just checking with Alain before installing it.’

‘Of course.’ She let go of her towel. Her leotard plunged into a deep V beneath her throat, the material pulled taut across the slight swell of her breasts. Her pale skin was wet and glistening. ‘I’m sure Alain doesn’t have a problem with that.’

She lifted her chin. There was authority in her voice. A challenge in her eyes. Perhaps there’d been a discussion between them while Trent had been away. Perhaps Stephanie had told Alain that she was in charge now.

Alain clenched and unclenched his hands. Trent could feel the heat coming off him, could smell an odour that was warm and meaty, like he was running a fever.

‘Come through to my studio,’ Stephanie said. She turned and paced towards the door she’d opened. Her strides were long and measured, arms and hips swinging freely.

Trent didn’t follow immediately. He was aware that Alain wanted to talk some more. That he had something to say.

‘I’m sure Alain has many things to be getting on with,’ Stephanie said. She cocked her hip and glanced over her shoulder. Fixed him with her gaze. ‘Come,’ she told Trent. ‘Follow me.’

The studio was large and spare and starkly illuminated by a series of recessed ceiling bulbs. The light was forensic in its intensity. It was inescapable.

The floor was timber and flexed beneath his feet, as if some kind of spring had been engineered into it. Three of the walls were painted white. The remaining wall was one long mirror. It stretched from left to right and from ceiling to floor. A rounded wooden barre was fitted at waist height in front of the mirror. It reminded Trent, dizzyingly, of the set-up in the room where he’d found Aimée’s necklace.

He gawped stupidly at his reflection in the glass. Found that he couldn’t look away. The guy in the mirror looked many pounds lighter and several shades paler than he should have done, as if he were recuperating from a major surgical procedure.

Stephanie moved across to hang her towel over the barre, then gripped the beam in one hand and stood upright beside it with her shoulders back, chest out. Her legs were pressed together, knees and heels touching, feet parted at an angle. She stretched her free arm above her head, then sprang up onto her toes. She wasn’t
en pointe
– he guessed she’d need to be wearing her ballet shoes to achieve that – but she wasn’t far off. Her body alignment was precise, her balance absolute. Trent could see the freckled skin on her back, exposed by the low scoop of the leotard. The spurs and nodules of her spine were pronounced, standing out as if she’d been dieting too hard. But there was plenty of muscle there. It was taut. Hard-packed. She glanced across to find him staring and didn’t seem surprised.

‘You still dance?’ he said, and immediately felt like a fool.

She smiled demurely and unfurled her hand with a flourish. Her face became haughty, a self-aware parody of the serious artiste. Her eyelids fluttered.

‘I heard that you were good.’

She rolled her eyes and dropped to her heels, shaking her arms loose. She moved her head from side to side, as though weighing his question. ‘I used to be. Perhaps.’

‘Only used to be?’

‘It was my career.’ She shrugged. Laughed faintly. ‘My life, actually.’

‘So what changed?’

‘I was injured.’

‘Badly?’

‘Very. My knee.’ She gazed down at her right leg, as if it had tricked her in some way. ‘Now, I dance only for myself. And in the beginning for Jérôme, too.’ She nodded to a door that was fitted flush into the wall on the opposite side of the room. ‘His study is through there,’ she said. ‘He liked to watch me.’

Trent could taste the coppery tang of blood. He glanced down at the floor – flashing back for an awful moment to the russet-brown stain Girard had found on the carpet in Jérôme’s villa – then across to her feet. Two of her toes were bound in sterile tape.

‘For support,’ she told him. ‘My strength isn’t what it used to be.’

He nodded mutely and shifted his focus to the mirrored wall. He avoided his own reflection and gazed instead at her ankles and muscular calves, the bunched pink leg warmers and then the graceful contours of her slender hips. She swivelled and he realised that she was staring into the reflective surface, also. Head on an angle. Long neck tipped to one side. Waiting for him to find her eyes. They were large. Expectant. Encouraging. Aimée had looked at him that way sometimes.

He swallowed. Hard.

‘Do you miss it?’ he managed. ‘The performance, I mean.’

She held his gaze. She was standing only a few metres away, but for a moment she looked cast adrift and isolated in the mirror. Utterly alone in the room.

‘I apologise for Alain,’ she said, simply. ‘He should respect you.’

Trent didn’t respond. He sensed that she was warming up to something. Something important. He could see it building in her. She was leaning forwards, as if she were about to launch into a sudden dance movement.

‘The situation with Jérôme,’ she began. ‘The kidnapping. It’s . . . difficult for me.’

‘It’s always difficult for anyone in your position. You’re no exception, believe me.’

‘Please.’ She bit down on her lip. Shook her head. Then she glanced quickly towards the door that led into the entrance hall. It was closed. Trent had shut it behind him. She took a deep breath, chest swelling. Looked up at him from beneath lidded eyes. ‘There’s something I have to show you. Something I feel you should see.’

She turned her back to him then. He could still see her face in the mirror, but it was angled down, brow furrowed. She rolled her lip between her teeth and reached up hesitantly to the strap of her leotard on her left shoulder. She plucked at the fabric, fed a finger beneath. Then she rolled the strap down, easing her long arm through. She freed the strap on the other side. Took a moment to collect herself, then peeled the leotard down as far as her trim waist, covering her small, budded breasts with her forearms.

That was when he saw the bruises and the swelling.

The contusions were yellowed and aged, greenish-blue blurs around her kidneys and spine. There were welts, too. Angry red slashes that criss-crossed just above her buttocks. The skin was pimpled and raised.

Trent felt himself sway. He was aware of a fierce tingling in his fingers, a febrile snap and twitch. Anger. Fear. And worse, the desire to reach out to her. To touch her. Soothe her.

‘Who did this to you?’ The rage was there in the unsteady pitch of his voice.

Her eyes were closed, head bowed like a penitent. They both knew he hadn’t needed to ask.

‘He’s always careful,’ she said softly. ‘He does it where people can’t see.’

‘He shouldn’t do it at all.’

His anger cowed her. She trembled, the bruises and sores standing out in colourful relief against her bleached skin.

‘You could leave,’ he told her. ‘Why don’t you leave?’

Her eyes snapped open. They were wet and vibrating. He watched them climb the glass until she glimpsed his face and flinched at the horror that was etched there.

‘He’d find me,’ she whispered. ‘He does this when I’m here. If I left . . .’ She shuddered, the thought left unspoken. The implication, too. She’d told him the situation with Jérôme was hard for her. Now he understood why. If Jérôme didn’t make it back alive from his abduction, she’d have her way out.

‘Does Alain know?’ he asked.

‘Alain’s a good man.’

‘Does he know?’

‘It’s not easy for him. To him, Jérôme is a hero.’

Trent fixed his jaw. He couldn’t hide the ferocity that crackled and twitched inside him. The heat that flared in his eyes. He was seeing the evidence of Jérôme’s behaviour for himself now. It was no longer just hearsay. The man had assaulted his wife. It wouldn’t have taken a big step for him to attack Aimée, too. It wasn’t hard to believe that he’d lost all control.

Stephanie looked down meekly and eased up her leotard, feeding her arms back through the straps until she was dressed once again.

One of the straps had twisted up. It terrified him how tempted he was to reach out and straighten it. To rest his hand on her skin. Pull her close.

And not only that, but how badly he wanted to push her back and slap her hard across the face.

He tightened his hand into a ball. Dug his nails into the flesh of his palm until his fist shook.

Complexities he didn’t need.

‘I see it in you, too,’ she said, looking up hesitantly. ‘The sadness. There was someone you were close to, wasn’t there? Is it the girl in the photograph? The one you carry in your wallet? She’s very beautiful.’

He opened his mouth to reply, then felt his response catch in his throat. It was no longer the simple question it had used to be. Hidden intricacies lay behind it now. Whole dimensions he was at a loss to know how to negotiate.

She absorbed his silence with an expression of grave solemnity, as if it held a special resonance for her.

‘You must miss her very much.’

He couldn’t hold her eyes. There seemed to be a level of understanding in them that unnerved him. And something more, perhaps. An invitation he couldn’t begin to assimilate.

He snatched his head away and glanced towards the door that led to Jérôme’s study. Lowered his satchel from his shoulder and hefted it dumbly.

‘I have to go and connect this,’ he said. ‘The gang could call at any moment.’

‘Of course.’ She hunched her shoulders. Hugged herself. ‘I understand.’

He turned from her and stepped across the room. Groped for the door handle and passed through into the study. The door eased closed behind him and he slumped back against it, releasing a breath that hadn’t seemed to contain enough air.

Back in Marseilles, the young man was staring at the small colour screen on the reverse of his digital camera. The screen was lit up brightly against the dingy brown interior of his studio apartment. He was focused on it intently and his eyes were wet and stinging against the electronic glare.

The camera had a whole bunch of useful functions. The young man could toggle a little lever with his thumb and manipulate the image in any way he preferred. He could scroll left or right, up or down. He could zoom out. He could zoom in. He could remove red-eye.

The extreme zoom was his favourite function. He was using it on his preferred image. It was the shot of Trent and the guy at the café, the one where the guy had swivelled in his chair and stared directly towards the young man. The guy hadn’t spotted him. He was absolutely certain of that. But the young man had captured his features dead on.

The camera had been expensive. The image it produced was excellent. He could zoom right in to the guy’s deeply lined face without the quality of the shot degrading. There was no way anybody could dispute what he’d managed to record.

He smiled and looked up from the glowing screen. He stared out the window and across the scrappy square towards the blue front door to Trent’s apartment. His eyes burned and watered, then brimmed over. The young man smiled as hot tears streamed down his face.