Dead Line (14 page)

Trent walked stiffly across the room and collapsed into Jérôme’s generous desk chair. The supple leather creaked and wheezed as he adjusted his weight. He reached into his satchel and removed the digital recording equipment he’d purchased just that morning from an electrical store in Marseilles. It was the same system he’d installed in his own apartment and it took him no more than a few minutes to wire it up to Jérôme’s phone. He lifted the receiver and checked that the green light came on and the machine started to record. Satisfied, he replaced the receiver and reset the equipment.

He spread his hands on the lush timber. Drummed his fingers. Considered what to do next.

Stephanie’s presence in the studio next door bothered him a great deal. So did the open door into the glazed corridor. But if he shut it, he might arouse Alain’s suspicion. Better to go ahead and act now. Be decisive. Who knew when another chance might present itself?

He rolled back the chair and bent down to study the drawers fitted into the desk. He tried each of the handles in turn. Every one was locked.

He glanced up. The room remained empty, the windows aglow with afternoon sunlight. He delved a hand inside his satchel, lifted up the false base and removed the leather pouch that Girard had passed him back at the restaurant. The pouch contained a set of eight brass keys. They were small and stubby, each with a very basic but slightly different bit on the end.

Trent had described the desk to Girard in considerable detail. He’d explained about its antique characteristics. He’d spoken of the little brass keyhole fitted to each drawer and he’d asked Girard to pass the information on to the guy who’d laid the groundwork for them to access Jérôme’s villa in Cassis. Trent had been pretty sure that the drawers were fitted with warded locks. They were about as basic as locks could get. It was likely the same key would open every drawer and Trent had wanted to know if Girard’s contact had a set of old-fashioned skeleton pass keys that might fit.

Girard’s guy had obliged, for what Trent had been warned would involve an additional fee, and now Trent had the first key in his hand, pinched between his forefinger and thumb, and he was debating where to begin.

He decided on the thin central drawer fitted above his knees. He poked the key in the lock. There was a fair amount of play between the shaft and the keyhole. The key slipped all the way inside until it met some resistance and then he twisted it to the left. It didn’t budge. That was disappointing but no great surprise. The chances of this working were slim to begin with, so the likelihood of the first key doing the job was remote.

He looked up and checked both doors again – the one into the studio and the one leading into the corridor. He listened for any sound or disturbance. There was none.

He withdrew the key and tried the next in the collection. This key had two bits with a notch in between whereas key number one had just featured a single brass block.

He eased the key into the lock. Waited for the resistance. Turned it to the left. Nothing. He jiggled it some more. The lock didn’t turn.

He tried key number three, then number four.

Not even close.

He moved on to key five, working faster now, aware that the risk he was running was increasing all the while. He wasn’t taking quite so much care as before because he didn’t expect the key to work and was just about ready to write the whole idea off as bust.

So he didn’t react right away when the key confounded him by rotating a half-turn to the left. He heard the snick of the lock retracting and stared at his finger and thumb, pointed downwards at the floor. He released a faint whistle and very carefully slid the drawer open a short way.

There were papers inside. He eased the drawer back further and found that he’d accessed Jérôme’s stationery supply. There was a yellow foolscap notepad, a couple of pens and some quality writing stock as well as a collection of envelopes of various sizes.

There was nothing of any interest to Trent, so he slid the drawer closed, turned the key in the lock and transferred his attention to the uppermost drawer on his right. The same key disabled the lock and the drawer opened just as easily. It contained only one item – a blue leather appointment diary.

The diary was large and thick. It related to the current calendar year, two pages to a day. Trent spread it on his knees beneath the desk. He glanced up and checked the corridor, then flicked through to the day of Aimée’s disappearance.

There it was. Set down in the gap beside 4 p.m., in bold blue ink.
Meeting with A. Paget
.

Nothing had been added to the note. No explanation of what the meeting might be for nor where it had been scheduled to take place. There’d been no attempt to erase the record or to disguise it at all.

Trent scanned upwards. There was another entry against 2 p.m., this one surrounded by square brackets.
[C.M.??]

C.M. The initials of the dancer Jérôme had arranged to meet, Trent supposed. He wasn’t sure it mattered any more, though it was something he could verify with Girard.

Trent kept his thumb on the page and flicked forwards at speed until he reached the present date. His quick scan revealed no mention of Aimée, or of Trent, nor anything connected to them both. There were no further references to C.M.

Trent paused and worked backwards from his thumb until he located the two previous meetings Aimée had held with Jérôme. One had taken place just over five weeks before her disappearance. The first was some two weeks before that. The delay and the repeat meetings didn’t strike Trent as unusual. It often took some time for Aimée to hook a client and even longer for the documentation to come through from the brokerage firm they liaised with once the initial paperwork had been signed. The purpose of Aimée’s third meeting with Jérôme would have been to deliver the complete set of policy documents. One of the things that rankled with Trent most of all was that Jérôme had attacked her, possibly killed her, then delivered the insurance papers to his lawyer as if nothing untoward had occurred.

He felt a surge of heat course through him. Anger that made him want to lash out. He fought to control his temper and settled for tearing free the pages connected to Aimée. He folded them several times, until they were wrapped very tight and very small, and then he wedged them inside the ankle opening of the boot on his right foot. He closed the diary and slipped it away and locked the drawer and moved on to the one below.

He was afraid of what he might find now. His hand shook as he inserted the key. His jaw ached and he became aware of how badly he’d been clenching his teeth. Could there be something of Aimée’s in this desk? Her mobile, perhaps? Might he find some concrete evidence of what had been done to her? And what if he did? What then?

‘What are you doing?’

Trent’s head snapped up. Alain was standing in the doorway to the study clutching a buff cardboard wallet in front of his waist. Trent had no idea how long he’d been standing there.

The drawer Trent had been working on was partway open. He palmed the key and allowed it to fall gently inside. The wire that connected the recording equipment to the telephone was hanging in a loop in front of him. It was split in two. One end was plugged into the phone. The remaining lead terminated in a socket jack. Trent nudged the drawer closed with his knee and delved his hand inside his satchel, depositing the pouch of skeleton keys beneath the false bottom and removing a set of headphones in one fluid movement. He made a show of linking the headphones to the jack.

‘All done,’ he said, and laid the headphones down on top of the recording equipment.

Alain didn’t respond. He was staring towards the side of the desk Trent had been working through. He took a step inside the study. Then another. He moved with purpose across the centre of the room and circled the end of the desk just as Trent gave the drawer a final nudge with his knee.

Alain looked down.

Trent’s heart thrashed in his chest. He knew that Alain had come from the security room. He knew for a fact that there were surveillance cameras rigged up outside. But what if there were some inside, too? What if there was a device hidden in the study?

Trent twisted in his seat to face Alain. He tried to breathe steadily and slow his pulse but his eyes were straining to scan the ceiling. He glanced behind Alain at some of the shelves of green leather books. He couldn’t spot a camera.

‘I have a question for you,’ Alain said.

Trent’s mind blanked. His stomach eddied and he felt the dread chill of failure.

Alain loomed over him. He was standing very close. Would he snatch open the drawer and go for the incriminating key? Would he demand that Trent remove his boot?

‘Tell me,’ Alain said, withdrawing a limp, glossy sheet from the buff folder and laying it down on the surface of the desk directly in front of Trent, ‘who is this man?’ He was pointing at a colour photograph of two men sitting at a sunlit café table. One of the men was Trent. The second was Girard. Alain tapped the tacky print with his finger. ‘And why were you meeting with him this morning?’

‘You followed me?’ Trent asked.

‘Answer the question.’

Trent delayed his response. He was thinking hard. He was asking himself where Alain could have pursued him from.

He couldn’t have set off as soon as he’d left the estate. Trent had heard nothing to indicate he was being followed during his trek to the Peugeot and he’d spent a good half-hour, undisturbed, at the point where the gang had attacked from. No vehicle had approached while he’d been investigating the area nor during the time he’d spent burying Serge’s body. He’d been juiced on adrenalin. His senses had been heightened. He felt sure that he’d have picked up on Alain’s presence. And besides, if Alain had seen the terrible thing he’d done up on that rise, there was no way he would have allowed him back inside the house. There was no way he would have left him alone with Stephanie.

So he must have picked him up later. Trent’s best guess was that he’d spent the time after Trent had left the Moreau mansion carrying out a more detailed background check. Perhaps he’d contacted Jérôme’s lawyer again. Trent’s address would be listed on the insurance policy documents as the location his firm operated from. Alain must have decided to monitor him there. He must have followed him down to the quayside restaurant for his meeting with Girard.

‘You still don’t trust me,’ Trent said.

‘I’m paid not to trust people.’

‘Did you take this photograph yourself?’

Alain nodded, just barely. Trent was pretty sure it was the truth. Who else could he have called on for help at such short notice? Who else could he risk involving in the kidnap scenario? Not Philippe. Not Stephanie. Alain had told him that the housekeeper was elderly and couldn’t drive, which seemed to rule her out. Another employee of Jérôme’s that Trent didn’t know of yet? He doubted it. Very few people were trusted enough to be permitted inside the Moreau estate, so the chances of Alain tasking someone with the responsibility seemed unlikely. And Jérôme was a smuggler, a facilitator, a go-between. He wasn’t a guy with a crew of men at his disposal.

‘What if the gang had called while you were checking up on me?’ Trent asked.

Alain vented a low grumble of frustration. He tapped the image of Girard again. The sticky surface adhered to his skin. The photograph was fresh from the printer. Trent could smell the heated ink.

‘Who is this man?’

Trent sighed heavily. ‘His name is Luc Girard,’ he said. ‘He’s a former police detective. He worked out of Nice.’

‘And why did you meet with him? What did you discuss?’

Alain’s question suggested that he hadn’t been close enough to hear what the two men had said to one another. That was good. A definite plus. And the nature of the surveillance photograph supported the theory. It looked like a zoom shot. Judging by the angles, it had been taken from further along the quay, possibly close to the docking point for the municipal ferry that shuttled passengers to the opposite side of the marina throughout the day.

‘I didn’t tell him anything about Jérôme, if that’s what you’re concerned about. I told you, I don’t favour police involvement in a kidnap scenario.’

‘No? Then why meet with him at all?’

‘Sit down.’ Trent leaned backwards in the desk chair and knitted his hands together. Alain didn’t move. ‘Relax,’ Trent told him. ‘I’ll tell you everything you want to know. But it’ll take some time, so you might as well sit. And close that door, will you? I’d rather we discussed this in private.’

Alain gauged him for a moment longer, then backed off and went and eased the door shut. It gave Trent an opportunity to make sure the drawer was sealed before Alain returned to the area in front of the desk. He lifted one of the visitor chairs from the floor and twirled it around, finally sitting on it with his forearms draped over the backrest and his chin propped on his hands.

‘So go ahead,’ he said. ‘Talk.’

Trent tapped his thumbs together. He contemplated the photograph of his meeting with Girard. Inclined his head towards the image. ‘I wanted to speak with him about the man who contacted us on behalf of the gang. The one calling himself Xavier.’

Alain raised his head. ‘But you said—’

‘I know what I said. And I didn’t give him any details of what I’m involved in here. He knows nothing about Jérôme. He knows me too well to ask about an abduction I’m working on. This was strictly a one-way conversation.’

Alain blew air through his lips. He wasn’t convinced.

‘I wanted to talk to him about Xavier because I’ve encountered him in the past. We both have. I told you my first impressions were that the gang we’re dealing with are a professional outfit. Now I know it for sure. Xavier is a career kidnapper. One of the best.’

Alain bristled. ‘You didn’t mention this before.’

‘I’m telling you now. All of it. This man’, Trent said, nodding towards the photograph of Girard, ‘worked with me on an abduction carried out by Xavier’s gang over two years ago. They kidnapped the teenage son of a wealthy industrialist. I can tell you his name because his father will be one of the men your lawyer called to check up on me.’

Alain stared at him levelly. He waited.

‘Viktor Roux,’ Trent said.

Alain nodded. ‘We consulted his father. He said we should listen to you and do everything you say.’

Trent felt a small jolt of relief. It was a lesson the Roux family had learned the hard way. He wished they hadn’t needed to, though he couldn’t pretend he wasn’t grateful for it now.

‘He won’t have given you details,’ Trent said. ‘But I can. Provided they never leave this room.’

‘You have my word.’

Trent had no way of gauging the worth of Alain’s promise, though his usual concern for client confidentiality seemed of little significance right now.

‘Viktor Roux was snatched from outside a retail store in a backstreet of Nice. The store specialised in role-playing games. Viktor was a real enthusiast. He participated in a regular tournament the store owner held for his best customers on a Monday evening. A friend was with him at the time. He had his nose split with the butt of a rifle by one of the gang members. Fortunately, he called Viktor’s parents before he contacted the police. I was involved from the start. We were able to persuade Viktor’s friend not to speak with the authorities. And he was able to give us some basic details about the men who took Viktor.’

Trent paused. He looked down at his thumbs. He was rotating them, one over the other. He supposed it didn’t look good. A sign of nerves, maybe. He parted his hands. Rested a finger on the edge of the desk.

‘It won’t surprise you to hear the approach the gang used was similar to the way they snatched Jérôme. Viktor was on foot, so that made things simpler, but they arrived at speed in a blue van and three men leapt out. They wore ski masks. One of the men hit Viktor’s friend. The other two bundled Viktor inside the van. It was all over in seconds.’ Trent exhaled and met Alain’s intent stare. ‘The gang’s first call came inside twenty-four hours. Their spokesman identified himself as Xavier. He demanded a high ransom. Said Viktor would be killed unless his parents paid in full.’  

‘And? What happened?’

‘I told them the same thing I told you. I warned them not to agree to an early payment. I stressed the importance of negotiating a sensible fee.’

‘Did it work?’

Trent shrugged. ‘They disregarded my advice. They agreed to pay Xavier’s gang in full when he made his second telephone call. A ransom drop was arranged. The gang left a package for us in a nearby café with all the details we’d need. We complied with them precisely and they collected the cash.’ Trent paused. He smiled faintly. ‘But they didn’t release Viktor. Three days went by. Then another call came in. The ransom had been doubled. The gang expected payment within two days.’

Alain shifted in his seat. He gripped and re-gripped the backrest of his chair. ‘But what does this have to do with this man?’ he asked, pointing a finger towards the image of Girard.

‘I’m getting to that. The second ransom demand was a lot for the Roux to take in. Viktor’s mother had pushed for the full settlement the first time around. She wanted to do the same again. I counselled against it and Viktor’s father began to appreciate the logic in what I was saying.’

‘Or perhaps he did not wish to pay the fee.’

‘He could afford it. That wasn’t the issue. His concern was that he didn’t want to prolong the situation indefinitely. He didn’t want his son or wife to suffer any more than they had to. So he started to listen to me and to act on my advice. They’d ignored me once and it had cost them. It was an unfortunate lesson for them to learn.’

‘And did it work? Your advice?’

‘Eventually.’ Trent glanced down at the image of himself and Girard sitting at the café table. The camera had captured him squinting against the harsh sunlight. His face looked contorted, the skin tightened and crinkled around his eyes, his teeth bared in a strange grimace, as if he were biting down on something against a searing pain. ‘In its entirety, the abduction lasted three hundred and twenty-three days.’

Alain’s shoulders slumped. ‘Almost a year.’

‘Almost. You have to understand, it took a long time to recover from that first mistake. Resetting the gang’s expectations was difficult. They were anticipating more frailty from the family and when they faced a tougher response, they did everything they could to break them.’

‘Such as?’

‘Such as threats. They sent recordings of Viktor begging for his parents’ mercy. They sent pictures of him looking beaten and tortured. For many months the gang refused to reduce their demands.’ Trent smoothed his palm across the polished surface of the desk, like he was clearing steam from a mirror. It was one he was reluctant to stare into. ‘It put a great deal of strain on Viktor’s family. His mother in particular. I stressed how easily these things could be faked. I told them how often kidnap victims would be given scripts to read from, that they’d be encouraged to sound as distressed as possible.’

‘They didn’t believe you?’

‘Viktor’s mother couldn’t. She’d been pushed too far. His father was willing to stay with me for a little longer. But then the gang pushed again. And this time there was no way I could convince them the threat was phoney.’

‘Because the family cracked?’

Trent closed his eyes for a brief moment. He did his best to shut out the images that were flooding his mind, then fixed his gaze on Alain. ‘No, because the threat was real. The gang left a package in a public bin close to the family home. It was about the size of a shoebox, a polystyrene shell wrapped in brown tape and addressed to Viktor’s mother. We opened it together. It was mostly ice and bubble-wrap, at least until we got to the bottom.’

Alain raised an eyebrow.

‘They’d sent us one of Viktor’s fingers,’ Trent said, ‘with a promise of more to come.’