‘Let me try.’ Deira tapped the keyboard, then turned to look at her. ‘I don’t think it can be more than four characters,’ she said. ‘The cursor doesn’t appear to go any further than that anyhow.’
‘Oh, but . . .’ Grace made a face. ‘I thought it might seem that way but still be longer. Sometimes sites don’t show exactly how many characters you need.’
‘Possibly, but this is an internal document password and I honestly don’t think it’s massively encrypted. So that narrows it down at least.’
‘There must still be an enormous number of four-character passwords, though,’ said Grace. ‘Otherwise it’d be easy to crack a mobile phone.’
‘True,’ Deira conceded. ‘But let’s think about this clearly. The professor wanted you to work this out. He couldn’t have made it too difficult.’
‘I’ve tried every combination of memorable dates I can think of,’ Grace said. ‘Birthdays, anniversaries . . . Oh God!’ Her face paled and she pulled the laptop back towards her. She typed in a combination, then sighed with relief when she got the ‘password incorrect’ message. ‘I thought for a second he might have put in the day he died.’ She covered her face with her hands.
Deira said nothing. It was the first time she’d seen the other woman anything but composed – even in the restaurant, as she’d recounted her story, she’d been totally self-possessed.
After a moment, Grace took a deep breath and looked at her again. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Grace . . .’
‘Really.’ Her voice was firm and steady. ‘Carry on. Any more thoughts?’
‘Do you think it could be anything to do with the places you’re visiting?’ asked Deira, who wondered if Grace’s apparent calmness in the face of a terrible tragedy was simply a coping mechanism, or if she truly was one of the least emotional people she’d ever met. ‘Nantes. La Rochelle. Bordeaux . . .’ she continued, ‘is there anything special about them?’
Grace shook her head. ‘Other than the fact that we’ve been to them all before, no,’ she said. ‘As for the rest, I haven’t been to Pamplona, Toledo or this place called Alcalá de Henares. Ken did a literary lecture tour in Spain just before he was taken ill, and although I can’t remember exactly where he was, I’m assuming he went to those places. He’s certainly been to Pamplona a few times. The Sun Also Rises is . . . was one of his favourite books, and he went there for the running of the bulls. He didn’t run himself,’ she added, ‘but he sat in the cafés around the square and drank wine and channelled his inner Ernest.’
‘You were reading that on the boat,’ recalled Deira.
‘As I said, it was Ken’s favourite. I thought it would mean something to read it on this trip. I’d have preferred to reread Rosamunde Pilcher, to tell you the truth.’
Deira smiled slightly, remembering her own run-in with Professor Harrington over her critique of Hemingway’s best-known novel. Then she turned her attention back to the computer screen.
‘Cervantes was born in Alcalá de Henares,’ she remarked.
‘Cervantes?’
‘The guy who wrote Don Quixote,’ said Deira.
‘Yes, sorry, I know who he is. Ken had an old copy of the book in his study.’ Grace nodded. ‘He thought it was brilliant.’
‘I know,’ Deira told her. ‘I remember one of his lectures on Cervantes in college. It was riveting.’ She twirled one of her curls around her finger and looked thoughtfully at Grace. ‘He loved Cervantes and he loved Ernest Hemingway and both of the towns they’re associated with are on your list.’ She continued to stare at the screen in front of her. ‘He liked classic science fiction too,’ she said slowly. ‘Ray Bradbury. Arthur C. Clarke, Philip K. Dick . . . and Jules Verne.’ She looked up at Grace. ‘Jules Verne was born here, in Nantes.’
‘Oh!’ Grace looked at her with excitement. ‘He always brought a Jules Verne when we came to France. The first password must have something to do with him, don’t you think?’
She used her phone to google Jules Verne.
‘The twenty-fourth of March 1905 is his birthday,’ she said. ‘Worth a try?’
Deira entered 2403 in the document labelled Nantes and got the ‘password incorrect’ message.
Then she typed in the year.
‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘Bingo!’
‘Seriously?’ Grace looked at the screen and started to smile. ‘We did it,’ she said. ‘You did it! Thank you.’ She read through the document, then looked up at Deira. ‘But what the hell does any of this mean?’
‘It’s a clue to another password,’ replied Deira. ‘But as for what it means, I haven’t the faintest idea.’
Chapter 13
Loire-Atlantique, France: 47.1987°N 1.6537°W
Congratulations, Hippo! they read. You’re on your way. You’re not journeying to the centre of the earth for the next password but you’re heading down into the deep. How deep did he go – you only need the first number here. You’ll also need the number of portholes on the Atlantic (or should that be Atlantique); if you keep an eye out when you’re relaxing, you’ll find it. Finally, you have to take a photo of the door of his very own space and upload it to the link at the end. If you’ve got it right, you’ll be given the last number for the clue, as well as a letter to keep till the end. Think logically and you’ll find the answer. Don’t forget from here on your guesses are limited before you’re locked out. You have ten for this clue. Tread carefully.
‘Actually, I’ve only seven,’ said Grace. ‘I made some random guesses earlier and I got a message saying seven remaining. So I stopped.’
‘Right.’ Deira looked at the screen thoughtfully.
‘But what the hell is he on about?’ asked Grace. ‘Deep down where? Is the Atlantique a famous ship? Should I know how many portholes it has? And what space is he talking about? None of it makes sense.’
‘I’m sure it will if we think about it for long enough,’ said Deira. ‘Back when I was at college, Professor Harrington used to run literary treasure hunts for the students with clues like this. D’you remember them?’
‘I’ve no idea what he used to do, to be honest,’ said Grace. ‘We didn’t really talk about his work much. I only ever went to occasional events with him, and certainly nothing like a treasure hunt.’
‘They were like the literary pub crawls that tourists in Dublin do,’ said Deira. ‘Except we didn’t call in to a number of pubs; we’d just meet up in one at the end. We had to find clues along the way. All the clues together would give another clue to a book or an author or something on the literary scene. Any student who worked it out went into a draw for a signed copy of a book the professor liked. It was more social than serious, and it was good fun.’
‘Well, he’s certainly done the same thing here,’ agreed Grace. ‘But I don’t know how I’m supposed to work out any of the clues. Or if it matters in which order. I’m thinking it does because it’s the route I’m supposed to be taking. He pre-booked my hotels, which means I have to be in La Rochelle tomorrow night, so I only have tonight and tomorrow morning to find the door I’m supposed to be taking a photo of. It’s not a lot of time.’
‘In the treasure hunts he set for us you definitely had to do it in order, unless you made some very lucky guesses,’ said Deira. ‘When you solved one clue it gave you the password to the next one and so on. All of the clues together at the end will make some kind of sense.’
‘For crying out loud.’ Grace slumped back in her chair. ‘How on earth did he expect me to solve this? He was the literary genius in our house, not me. He might have called me Amazing Grace to his students, but he used to tell me I was an Amazon. That’s why he called me Hippo – it’s short for Hippolyta. She was an Amazon queen.’
‘Oh, good. I thought it might be an extra clue.’ Deira grinned. ‘I should’ve guessed. The professor often gave students nicknames from Greek mythology. All the same, it’s a travesty calling you Hippo. You’re a sylph.’
‘
He abbreviated Hippolyta when I got pregnant and absolutely ballooned,’ said Grace. ‘It sort of stuck.’
‘That wasn’t very kind.’ The words were out of Deira’s mouth before she could stop them.
‘Kindness wasn’t Ken’s forte,’ said Grace. Then she shrugged. ‘Oh look, I’m being unfair. He didn’t mean to be unkind. It simply never occurred to him that his words could hurt. Not that I was hurt by it,’ she added. ‘When I was expecting the children, I put hippos to shame.’
Deira tried and failed to imagine Grace as anyone other than the slender woman in front of her.
‘Anyhow,’ said Grace, after they’d lapsed into a slightly awkward silence, ‘we still have to figure out what he’s trying to say here.’
‘The first part is almost self-explanatory,’ said Deira slowly. ‘It’s the rest that’s stumping me.’
‘Self-explanatory?’ Grace looked at her in astonishment. ‘You’re way ahead of me in that case, because I haven’t a clue what it means.’
‘Well, I’m pretty sure the first element is still about Jules Verne,’ Deira said. ‘Verne wrote Journey to the Centre of the Earth as well as Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. I’m guessing 2 is the answer to how deep did he go, as it’s the first number in twenty thousand.’
‘OK.’ Grace nodded. ‘That makes sense. So what about the portholes? Was the ship in Twenty Thousand Leagues called the Atlantique?’
‘Strictly speaking, it was a submarine,’ said Deira. She closed her eyes for a moment while she thought. ‘Not the Atlantique. The Nautilus. He could have written a book about a ship called the Atlantique but I don’t know it if he did.’
‘I haven’t a notion,’ said Grace. ‘I never read any of them. I’m not a sci-fi buff.’
‘Hardly sci-fi now,’ said Deira. ‘I think his first book was published in the 1860s. Let’s forget about the book for a moment.’ She frowned as she studied the document. ‘The next part of the clue is the door of his very own space. I’m wondering if it’s his house – it might have a plaque or something outside the door. What d’you think?’
‘It must be!’ Grace’s eyes lit up. ‘You’re good at this, Deira.’
Deira opened the laptop’s browser. ‘Good but wrong,’ she said after she’d googled it. ‘Verne’s house is in Amiens, near Paris. But . . .’ her fingers flew over the keyboard, ‘there’s a museum in Nantes. The Musée Jules Verne.’ She clicked on Google Maps and entered the museum’s address. ‘Gosh, it’s not far from where we ate last night.’
‘Really?’ Grace moved closer to have a look.
‘Street View,’ said Deira as she dragged the icon onto the map.
The view of the street was perfect. Deira used the cursor to rotate the picture until a small whitewashed building with red brick around the windows filled the screen.
‘Musée Jules Verne.’ Grace read the sign on the wall beside the door ‘Oh my God, Deira, you’ve cracked it.’
‘Fingers crossed,’ said Deira. ‘So basically you have to take a photo of the door and upload it. Probably include the sign, too. I guess it’s some kind of program that compares it with one the professor uploaded before.’
‘But how would he . . .’ Grace’s voice faltered. ‘The last time he was here, he was well. He couldn’t have known then that he’d be setting this up.’
‘Maybe he took a photo when he was there and it gave him the idea later,’ said Deira. ‘I’m surprised at him being so tech-savvy as to put all this together. Back in the day, he used a massive Filofax and used to wander around the college with piles of folders covered in Post-it notes.’
‘Oh, he totally embraced technology,’ said Grace. ‘He said it was a great tool for researchers, although I didn’t realise he’d gone so far as setting up a program to compare uploaded photos. Or adding passwords to documents. I didn’t know he’d been to the Jules Verne museum either, though I suppose on one of our trips he could’ve gone without telling me. I thought he spent a lot of his time in his last months reading the old college stuff he’d saved on his laptop,’ she added. ‘Being nostalgic, you know, not devising treasure hunts. I guess I didn’t really know him at all.’
Deira gave her a sympathetic smile but remained silent.
‘That bit about the Atlantique.’ Grace gathered herself and spoke more firmly. ‘Maybe there’s a boat called Atlantique inside the museum?’
‘Maybe,’ said Deira. ‘Let’s think about it a bit more. We’ll work it out eventually, I know we will.’
Grace admired her confidence. And she hoped she was right.
She FaceTimed Aline before going to bed that evening, telling her that the crossing had been smooth and her journey to Nantes uneventful. She added that she’d had dinner with Deira O’Brien, whom she described as a friendly woman she’d met on the ferry.
‘I’m glad you’ve had some company at least,’ said Aline, who was sitting on the sofa in her pyjamas, her legs tucked beneath her. ‘Is this Deira woman going in the same direction as you?’
‘She’s driving to Bordeaux tomorrow,’ said Grace. ‘She hadn’t planned on staying in Nantes at all but she had a minor accident and needed to break her journey. Which was lucky for me, otherwise—’ She broke off. Although Aline knew that she’d been bringing Ken’s ashes with her, Grace hadn’t said anything about the treasure hunt. Because on the surface it might have been a fun game devised by her late husband to keep her amused on the trip to Cartagena (albeit with some kind of reward at the end), but Grace couldn’t be entirely sure that there hadn’t been some other kind of motivation behind it. And that wasn’t something she wanted to share with her daughter. Although, she thought suddenly, perhaps Aline would have some ideas about future clues. After all, Deira wouldn’t be around for the next one.
‘Otherwise what?’ asked Aline.
‘Otherwise I would’ve probably eaten in the hotel on my own and it was nice to go out.’ Grace decided to keep the treasure hunt to herself for the time being.
‘You will take care on the road, won’t you, Mum?’ Aline said. ‘I know you’ve broken your journey into short stages, but even so, it’s a lot to do on your own.’
‘I’ll be grand,’ said Grace. ‘It’s good for me.’
‘All the same, I wish I could have come with you.’
‘You’re busy with your husband, your child and your job,’ said Grace. ‘You couldn’t possibly have given me the time.’
‘Nevertheless . . .’
‘Please don’t worry about me, Aline,’ said Grace. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow from La Rochelle.’
‘I remember when we went there. It was lovely.’
It had been their last complete family holiday together, and although Aline, at seventeen, hadn’t been all that enthusiastic and insisted she’d be just as happy staying home by herself, it had ended up being one of their most enjoyable visits to France.
‘Yes, it was,’ said Grace. ‘Anyhow, I had an early start this morning and I’m pretty much whacked now. So I’m off to bed and I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’
‘Goodnight, Mum,’ Aline said. ‘Love you.’
‘Love you too,’ said Grace.
She put the phone on the nightstand, got into bed and, for the first time in months, was asleep within minutes.
Chapter 14
Loire-Atlantique, France: 47.1987°N 1.6537°W
She was in a deep sleep when a loud, insistent alarm startled her into wakefulness again. It took her a moment to realise that it wasn’t her phone but the hotel’s fire alarm. She slid her feet into the soft shoes she’d left beside her bed, opened the door and went into the corridor. Other guests were already there and heading for the fire escape. She sniffed the air but couldn’t smell any smoke and was already thinking that this was a false alarm when there was a loud bang from outside the building, followed by a terrified shriek.
Grace’s heart began to beat faster, but she stayed calm even as the woman behind her tried to push past.
‘We won’t g
et out any more quickly if you do that,’ she said, in the controlled voice she’d used during her years of cabin-crew experience. ‘Don’t rush, there’s plenty of time for everyone.’
The woman looked at her in surprise, but in reaction to Grace’s quiet authority she stopped pushing and followed her down the stairs and through the reception area to the garden beyond.
That was when they saw the flames rushing along the wooden pergola that covered one of the parking areas and fanning across the gap to the ivy-covered hotel building. As Grace watched, the flames took hold and began burning the green foliage, sending more smoke and flames billowing into the night air.
‘Putain de merde!’ cried a man behind her.
Grace didn’t understand the words, but their meaning was obvious. Although the immediate danger was currently confined to the newer wing of the hotel, the fire could easily spread. She thought about Ken’s laptop, still in the bedroom, and wished she’d had the presence of mind to grab it. But, as she’d been trained to do, she’d abandoned everything.
A sudden siren heralded the arrival of the fire brigade, to shouts of encouragement from the guests, most of whom were now watching the ever-growing fire with a mixture of apprehension and ghoulish interest. Meantime, a hotel employee was trying in vain to count them, a difficult task when everyone was intent on the unfolding drama. The firefighters were focusing jets of water on the flames to further cries of encouragement and approval. The smoke turned blacker. Ash rose into the air and then fell on the onlookers, some of whom started to cough. Grace’s eyes began to sting.
A woman beside her was screaming for her husband, while at the same time a man was yelling out for ‘Amélie!’ A moment later the two reunited, amid applause from the crowd. Grace couldn’t help thinking that everyone was being rather overdramatic. Yes, the hotel had been in some danger, but the firefighters seemed to have things under control, and although there was still a lot of smoke, the flames themselves had been quenched. As far as she could see, the building wasn’t damaged, although the wooden pergola was almost destroyed and the cars parked beneath it had taken hits from the burning wood as well as the deluge of water. She was thankful she’d found a parking space in front of the main building, then suddenly thought of Deira’s convertible. And then she thought of Deira herself and looked for her. But people were still milling around and it was hard to identify individuals.
The Women Who Ran Away: Will their secrets follow them? Page 11
