Dead Line (26 page)

‘Won’t you invite me inside?’ Stephanie asked. Her fingers were digging into her purse.

‘Now’s not a good time.’

‘We have a right to know what’s happening.’ She was fighting hard to keep her voice under control. ‘We deserve that, at least.’

Trent motioned with his chin towards where Philippe was leaning across the front passenger seat of his sports car, watching them through the side window, like a cab driver waiting on a fare. ‘Doesn’t look like your ride is planning to stick around for very long.’

Stephanie clenched her purse even tighter.

‘Careful,’ Trent said. ‘You’ll break a nail.’

‘We’ve been waiting to hear from you.’

‘Oh?’

‘I tried calling. I left a message.’

‘I heard.’

‘Were you going to contact me?’

‘Not any time soon. Not if I could help it.’

Now she looked ready to spit. She rammed her purse up beneath her arm, hugging it against her meagre chest. She leaned towards him from the hip, jabbing her finger, her nail like a painted blade.

‘You come into my home,’ she said, speaking through her teeth. ‘You judge me. Exclude me from this process. On what authority?’

‘My authority,’ Trent told her. ‘The authority Jérôme gave to me. He could have given it to you. He could have had it written into the contract he signed with my firm. But he chose not to. Now, why do you think that was?’

Her face morphed into something sharp and sculpted for attack. ‘You don’t speak to me that way. I won’t allow it. I showed you the things he’s done to me. How he hurts me.’

‘Sure, you showed me. But don’t let’s kid ourselves. This is no romantic love triangle you’re caught up in with Philippe. Take yesterday. Your studio. You showed me more than just your bruises. It was deliberate. A choice. You would have shown me anything to get what you want. Done anything to get away from Jérôme. So go find someone who cares. I’m not paid to.’

Trent began to move away. She snatched at his arm. Dug into his flesh with her nails.

‘Who’s that boy? Why is he with you?’

Trent shook his head.

‘Where’s Alain?’

This time, Trent met her glare with one of his own.

‘You must know,’ she said. She rocked to one side, assessing the front door to his apartment. The broken lock. ‘You must tell me.’

He wrenched his arm free, skin tearing. ‘Oh, I’ll tell you. He was taken.’

‘Taken?’

‘Snatched. By Xavier’s gang. They took the money. Took Alain, also.’

She inhaled sharply. Covered her mouth with her hand.

‘What will you do?’ she asked.

‘Find him. Then find Jérôme.’

‘But how? When?’

He shook his head. Smiled a slow, hard smile. ‘You must really have looked something up on that stage,’ he told her. ‘I think you could make an audience believe just about anything you wanted them to.’

Her lips crinkled and tightened. Her face was white, a hard blackness creeping into her eyes. ‘What will you do? Tell me. I have to know.’

‘Don’t worry.’ He tossed his chin towards Philippe. ‘I wasn’t going to ask lover boy for any cash.’

‘You said yourself that we should be careful. That we shouldn’t provoke them.’

‘That was before. This is now.’

She took a step closer. He could feel the vibrations coming off her. The pent-up rage.

‘You’ll come with us,’ she said, and just about resisted the urge to stamp her foot. ‘Right now. You’ll come and you’ll wait for them to call. You’ll tell us what to do.’

‘No, I’m done with that.’ Trent grabbed at her tensed biceps. He hauled her round and steered her towards Philippe’s car like a cop manhandling a suspect. He snatched open the low door. Pressed down on her shoulder, then the top of her head, forcing her inside. ‘You go home and sit by the phone in your husband’s study. Sit and watch the damn thing for as long as it takes. Spend some more of your time hoping they kill him. See what good it does you.’

He slammed the door closed and stepped down off the pavement into the street. Marched away across the sun-bleached square, beneath the plane trees, past the empty fountain.

He found Viktor sitting behind the wheel of a black Volkswagen Golf. The exterior was smeared with dirt and sand and dried salt spray. The duffel bag was on the seat behind him.

Viktor had changed his clothes. He was wearing a plaid shirt over beige cargo trousers. It didn’t look like the garments had been lying around in the car. The interior was clean and tidy. Trent guessed he’d called in to whichever apartment he’d been spying on him from to change out of his wet things.

‘Drive,’ Trent snarled. He clambered inside the Golf. ‘And tell me if they try to follow.’

Fleurs de Soleil was located at the corner of Rue Pavillon and Rue Paradis, just a short stroll from the Opéra where Trent had loitered, waiting for Jérôme and Stephanie, less than two days before. The shop fronted onto the threadbare grass of the Place du Général de Gaulle. An old fairground carousel was located at the far end of the square and Trent slowed his pace as he walked by.

He didn’t know why he did it exactly. He knew it would hurt but it felt like a necessary pain – a way to cement his resolve. A group of young mothers had gathered beside the carousel to watch their children laugh and scream as they twirled round and round on painted horses and in gilded carriages. Each and every delighted yelp was a cruel torment for Trent – a reminder of the child he might never get to meet.

He turned from the scene and walked on, crossing the street to the florist. It was clearly a high-end operation. The name of the store was stencilled in gold onto the windows in the same cursive font that Trent had seen on the side of the delivery van in Viktor’s photograph. A vibrant display of blooms pressed up against the glass and a number of extravagant bouquets and plants were fitted into tiered metal stands out front. Trent could smell the flowers and soaked dirt as he approached. The morning was dry and sunny but the pavement was damp. He supposed the plants had recently been topped up with water.

The scent was much more intense when he stepped inside. The temperature was a couple of degrees cooler. He felt the air condense on his skin as he took a moment to adjust to the colourful surroundings.

A trim, middle-aged woman in a green apron was standing behind a service counter. She was busy curling some lengths of white ribbon with a few deft strokes of a scissor blade. The ribbon had been tied around a bouquet of white roses wrapped in translucent pink cellophane. There were a dozen roses. Every stem was the exact same length. The flower heads were pristine.

‘Collecting or ordering?’ The woman had yet to look up from the ribbon. Trent was surprised that she’d even seen him. ‘If you’re picking up an order, that’s fine,’ she said, as if it wasn’t remotely fine and Trent should know as much. ‘If you want a bespoke bouquet, it’s going to have to be tomorrow.’

‘It’s neither,’ Trent replied.

The woman paused. She peered up from behind a heavy fringe. Didn’t seem impressed by what she saw.

‘Well, speak up.’ She set the scissors down and fluffed the cellophane until she was content with its shape. Then she wiped her brow with the inside of her wrist. ‘I’m a little rushed today. What is it you want?’ Her eyes contracted. ‘You’re not trying to sell me something, are you? I have all the suppliers I need.’

Trent raised a palm. ‘I’m just looking for someone.’

She exhaled in a rush and set the flowers down on a table behind the counter where more bouquets were arranged. The shelves above the table were stocked with a rainbow supply of floral wires, twine and ribbon, a generous collection of green foam spheres and plenty of vases and aluminium tubs.

‘She’s not here,’ the woman said, sharply.

‘Excuse me?’

For a moment, Trent’s heart stopped beating. Could she mean Aimée?

‘Her name’s Céline.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘She’s ill today. Or so she claims. And believe me, you’re not the first admirer to wander in and ask after her.’

‘No.’ Trent was beginning to lose patience. ‘That’s not why I’m here. I’m trying to find the man who delivers your flowers. Is he available? I need to speak to him.’

The woman moved to her side and yanked a length of pale green cellophane out from a wall-mounted roll. She tugged down and sliced the sheet against a metal blade, then draped it carefully over the counter. She lunged behind Trent for a tub of lilies and began sorting through them.

‘Arnaud? Why are you looking for him?’

‘He delivered some flowers to my grandmother last week. It was a special day for her. The anniversary of her wedding to my late grandfather. Your driver was very kind. He helped her with a vase. I want to thank him.’

The woman squinted at him. ‘Arnaud did this? You’re sure?’

Trent nodded.

‘Doesn’t sound like Arnaud.’

‘Even so, I’d like to express my gratitude.’

‘Well, I can tell him if you like. What’s your grandmother’s name?’

‘I’d prefer to speak with him myself. I have something for him, you see. A small token. From my grandmother.’

‘And you don’t trust me?’ The woman shook her head roughly. Snatched at another stem for her display. ‘I should be offended but I don’t have the time for it. You’ll find him at the Prado market. My husband is covering his deliveries. If you see him, will you tell him that—’

But when the woman glanced up, Trent had already left the shop.

The market was busy. Not early-morning busy, but there were plenty of people around. Three o’clock. In another hour the traders would begin packing up for the day.

Trent led Viktor through the crowds, scanning the colourful stalls that faced one another across the grubby strip of concrete. A backbeat of murmured conversation, traders’ enticements and scooter horns filled the air. Traffic streamed along Avenue du Prado behind the canopied stalls on Trent’s right. Somewhere beneath his feet, subway trains shuttled through blackened
métro
tunnels.

There was a lot of merchandise on offer. Fake watches, plastic sunglasses, cheap jewellery and leather handbags; knock-off DVDs and second-hand console games; fresh ground spices, glistening olives and handmade cheeses. There were blue trays crammed with ice and gaping Mediterranean fish and limp, oily squid and squirming langoustines. There were grocery stalls with pyramid arrangements of sun-ripened fruits and bulbous vegetables.

There were several flower stalls.

Trent counted five before they found the one they were searching for. Most of the tubs and green plastic buckets were empty but the bouquets that remained were thick and generous, stuffed with roses and lilies, sunflowers, gerberas and gladioli. The gold-on-green sign above the stall featured the same flowing script that Trent had seen on the windows of the florist’s shop and the side of the delivery van:
Fleurs de Soleil
.

Trent recognised Arnaud, the stringy guy with the long hair and the wispy beard, from the photograph Viktor had shown him. He had on a baggy blue T-shirt with a money belt slung low around his narrow waist, and he was busy wrapping a mixed bouquet in paper for a smiling, well-groomed young man in a business suit. The man was probably taking the bouquet home to his wife or girlfriend, Trent thought. He’d done the same thing for Aimée many times. Perhaps he’d even bought flowers from Arnaud.

Viktor was standing still and staring. Trent grabbed him by the elbow and hauled him away. There was a street café a short distance ahead. Trent guided Viktor into a rubber-strung chair at a circular table with a view of the flower stall from behind the trunk of a pollarded tree. He signalled the waitress and ordered espressos. Then he walked to the newsstand close by and bought a copy of
L’Équipe
that he folded and placed on the table between them.

‘You’d make a terrible spy,’ Trent told Viktor. ‘Relax. Stop staring. He’s not going anywhere.’

‘But what do we do?’ Viktor’s face was tight and urgent. He seemed nervous. Flighty.

‘We talk to him.’

‘When?’

Trent tapped the table. Viktor had been staring again. ‘Later,’ he said. ‘For now, drink your coffee.’ The waitress approached their table and set the espressos down in front of them. She slipped the paper bill beneath a glass ashtray, her easy smile faltering as she spotted the scarred mess where Viktor’s thumb and finger had once been. She averted her eyes and moved away.

Viktor lowered his hand onto his lap beneath the table, then scowled back across the street, around the tree trunk. ‘Do you think he’s one of them?’ he asked.

‘You tell me. He’s very thin. Did any of the guys who guarded you strike you that way?’

‘I don’t think so.’

Trent didn’t, either. He’d been comparing Arnaud’s build to the masked men who’d abducted Jérôme. It was possible he’d been one of them. Add an army surplus jacket and a ski mask and an assault rifle and it was conceivable that the guy would look a lot more imposing. But still not quite sturdy enough. And if he was involved in taking Jérôme, then it stood to reason that he’d be involved in guarding him, too. He wouldn’t be spending his days selling flowers.

‘Are you really just going to go over and talk to him?’ Viktor asked. ‘Right out in the open? With all these people around?’

‘Give it a while. It’ll quieten down.’

‘What if he refuses to tell you anything?’

Trent raised his espresso to his lips. Sipped the bitter coffee. Truth was, he didn’t plan on giving the guy a choice. His Beretta was snug against his ribs, inside his shoulder holster. And he had the rest of his equipment in the duffel bag in Viktor’s car. It wouldn’t be so hard to make the guy come with them. A Beretta could be very persuasive. And once Trent had the guy somewhere remote, he could be very persuasive, too. He could make Arnaud tell him what he wanted to know just like he’d planned to make Jérôme talk.

‘So we just sit here?’ Viktor asked. ‘We just –’ he scratched the back of his head – ‘wait.’

‘That’s right,’ Trent told him.

He was a patient man. It was an attribute he prided himself on.

He scooped a handful of coins out of his pocket and stacked them on the bill, then flicked open the newspaper. He held it before him with spread arms and started to scan the text.

Viktor wasn’t good at looking elsewhere. He left his espresso untouched, his attention fixed on the flower stall. His body was hunched up in his chair, one knee raised, hands clutched tightly around his shin, eyes vigilant. He was constantly rocking forwards and backwards, shaking his head, muttering to himself.

Watching Viktor – his restlessness, the indiscreet manner in which he was staring at the guy behind the flower stall – was making Trent only too aware of how consumed he’d been by Aimée’s disappearance during the past weeks. The kid must have given himself away a hundred times during the period when he was holed up in the apartment across the square, keeping an obsessive eye on his movements, and yet Trent hadn’t noticed him once.

What else had he missed? What other things should he have spotted?

He folded his newspaper and asked Viktor for his camera, then began scrolling through his photos. There were hundreds of images. Some of him. Some of Girard. A few of Alain, including one of him taking a photograph from the window of the silver 4 × 4. Some were of complete strangers who’d just happened to pass by. Trent didn’t find anything that might help him, and it was an unsettling feeling, like flicking through a scrapbook of memories he didn’t know he had.

Suddenly, Viktor reared up in his chair, breaking Trent’s concentration. He’d let go of his leg and was leaning forwards, as if he was about to spring to his feet. His fingers dug into the table, wrists shaking. But it was his expression that intrigued Trent most of all. His face was flushed. His jaw jutted forwards and his eyes seemed to swirl with a strange intensity.

Trent tracked Viktor’s gaze. He looked over at the flower stall.

Arnaud was talking to a heavyset man with his back towards them. The man was just an inch or so taller than the flower seller but he seemed to tower over him. The black military-style shirt he had on was stretched taut across his muscular torso, the short sleeves ringed tight around swollen biceps coloured with sleeve tattoos. His stance was wide, the top of a pair of white briefs visible above the waistband of his stonewashed jeans.

‘What is it?’ Trent asked Viktor.

But Viktor didn’t respond. It was as if he couldn’t hear, as though he were peering through some kind of soundproofed tunnel that led only to the two men at the flower stall.

The guy in the black shirt was carrying a brown padded envelope that he pressed into Arnaud’s chest. He watched as the flower seller lifted the flap and checked its contents.

Arnaud seemed relieved by what he found inside. His shoulders fell and he resealed the flap and nodded and looked around for a safe place to store the envelope. He tucked it somewhere beneath the stall.

When he straightened, the guy with the sleeve tattoos checked the time on his watch. His watch was large and bulky. It had an aluminium wristband that glinted in the afternoon sun.

Viktor’s breath caught in his throat. ‘Look,’ he whispered.

The guy wasn’t finished with his watch just yet. He used his thumb to release the metal catch on the strap. The wristband sprang open and hung loosely around his painted arm. He flicked his wrist, rotating it fast. The watch swung around in a complete circuit and ended up exactly where it had started. The guy fastened the clamp. Lowered his arm.

Viktor’s body slackened. Trent reached out and grabbed his shoulder.

‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘Do you know that guy?’

Viktor nodded, his eyes misty and roving.

‘Tell me.’ Trent shook Viktor hard. ‘Who is he?’

The guy had turned sideways on. He had a low caveman brow. Eyes that seemed to be set just a fraction too far apart.

‘He’s one of them,’ Viktor managed, in a voice that quavered with amazement and fear.

The guy was walking away now. He was passing through a narrow gap between the flower stall and the butcher’s stand next to it. Trent could see that a blue panel van had been double-parked on the street behind, its hazard lights blinking.

‘You’re certain?’ Trent asked.

‘I remember the tattoos. And the watch. The gesture.’ Viktor gulped air. He jerked his wrist, mimicking the stunt the guy had pulled with his timepiece. ‘He was always doing that.’

Trent was out of his chair very fast. He hauled Viktor to his feet by the collar of his shirt. The kid scrabbled at his throat as Trent dragged him away towards where they’d left Viktor’s Golf.

Trent didn’t pause or look back. He didn’t hesitate when the waitress called after them. He’d forgotten his newspaper but he wasn’t about to return. He paced through the crowds, Viktor stumbling alongside him, his lungs tight and airless, his heart thumping hard in his chest.