‘No. I got the impression that they’d just repeated their last demand. I think they must expect the police to do all the running around checking up what Udo’s been up to. I don’t think they’ll hurt the brothers. At least, that’s not the impression I get. The impression I get is that they want Udo’s head on a plate.’
‘Like Salome,’ I said.
‘What?’ He hesitated, cleared his throat. ‘I know it’s bad, Sylvie, but there’s one consolation: at least Gabriel won’t be on his own now.’
‘No,’ I said heavily. ‘He won’t.’
‘I-I’m sorry if I’ve upset you,’ he said gently, ‘but I thought – if you didn’t know – maybe it was better a friend should break it to you so you’d know when the police rang what they were after.’
There was an odd note in his voice, I thought. I said, ‘Mick, you don’t believe that I had anything to do with this?’
‘No, no, of course not,’ he answered, too quickly. ‘Why would I think that?’
I couldn’t answer. I hung up. He rang again almost at once but I didn’t reply. Instead, I switched off my phone. I felt drained, exhausted, beyond crying or screaming or anything much at all. When Freddy pulled over and Claire got into the back seat with me and hugged me tight, I could barely respond, though her warmth around me was good. I felt so cold.
I can’t tell you how we got back, or about the phone call Freddy made to Lieutenant Jettou, or how I responded. I told her everything I knew, which wasn’t much, and just as in Mick’s voice, I thought I could hear the faintest glimmer of doubt in hers. That’s all I really remember. I can’t say it hurt me. I was past that. All I could think of was that while I was mentally berating Daniel for his cruelty to poor little me last night, he was being bundled off by shadowy, daring and ruthless criminals who would likely stop at nothing to reach their goal. Udo’s head on a plate. It had a horribly apt ring to it. Suddenly I was sure the kidnapper, or kidnappers, wanted more than an inquiry into Fox. They wanted Udo disgraced. Shamed. Ruined. But also destroyed. Not only as a businessman, but as a person. This was more than a financial or business quarrel. This was personal.
I couldn’t eat anything that night. Freddy and Claire were very kind, and they did not try to make me talk or give me advice, which I would have ignored anyway. I was packed off to bed early with a hot-water bottle and a cup of cocoa, but though I dozed for a little while, I kept waking up and thinking or at least trying to with my thoughts going round in vicious circles. Finally I heard my sister and my aunt going up to their rooms. I heard them pausing at my door, opening it carefully and poking their heads in to see if I was sleep, so I kept my eyes tight shut and breathed deeply. I didn’t want to talk, or even be comforted. I just wanted to go back to the day before yesterday, and to have it happen again and again and never ever get past that.
It was while I was lying there, sleepless and yet in that half-dream state that keeps your limbs heavy, as if nailed to the bed, that I remembered the dream I’d woken from, last night. A phone, ringing. Daniel’s muffled voice. Pleading. Calling for help. The hair rose on the back of my neck and in that instant something broke in me. The heavy stupor, the blank numbness that had so weighed on me and made me incapable of doing anything, or of even thinking clearly, suddenly lifted. Crazy as it sounds, I knew instinctively then that somehow, in his moment of great need, Daniel hadbeen calling me, and that somehow he had reached out to me, in thought, in spirit, in whatever you like. And I had heard.
An amazing wave of happiness washed over me. And in the same instant came enlightenment, and I suddenly remembered exactly where I’d seen a mention of Belgium, recently. For a beat of time, it made me feel shaky again. But I brushed the weakness aside. I was no longer going to shiver and shake and weep and wail. I was going to be strong. I was going to act. I did not know if it would lead to anything, this sudden memory. But I had to find out, for sure. No matter what it took. And no matter what it led to.
I got up and pulled on some clothes. Holding my shoes in my hand, I went downstairs, to Freddy’s study. I turned on the laptop and fired up the internet.
Terror by night
I knew what I was looking for. I could see the article in my mind’s eye, even if I didn’t remember exactly which newspaper it had been in or what the headline had been. As Google came up, my fingers hovered over the keys. Did I really want to revisit all that? How could it possibly, realistically, have anything to do with what had happened here? But really I suppose I was just afraid.
I took a deep breath and keyed in, ‘Thomas Radic Wedding Heaven Belgium’. And there it was, instantly, the very first thing. Gold Bar Scam Leads to Horrifying Death.It was a link to the article about the background to Radic’s problems, and how he had been scammed by fraudsters who had lured him to Belgium and fleeced him of lots of money. It was the event that had led to his other problems, the breaking of his engagement to Helen, estrangement from his family, deep depression and eventually his suicide.
I stared at the words on the screen. The trouble was that though I’d got to what had been nagging me, in truth the only slight, tiny link between back then and now was Belgium. And that was mere coincidence. I hesitated, then typed in the words, ‘Thomas Radic Sprouts London Brussels’. Nothing. I tried ‘Benedict Udo Thomas Radic.’ Still nothing. I went back to my original search and looked at the other references. They were mostly variants of the same thing. I had proved nothing. And I had delved back into things I really didn’t want to think about. All that was over. Quite over. And the Radic family had reconciled with the Makarios family, or at least, as Freddy had put it, offered some ‘closure’. It was time to put a full stop to what had after all been a false lead. I had to look in other places for what might be behind the kidnap of Gabriel and Daniel.
But I decided to click on the last link, just in case. It was a story like the others, and was illustrated with a photo, like the others. But not just with a mugshot of Radic or of the front of Wedding Heaven. This one was actually a few days later than the others, and was reporting on Thomas Radic’s funeral. It was obviously not a picture the mourners must have wanted. You could see the coffin coming out of the church, but most of the people around it were obscured by a big, burly man in sunglasses and black suit, standing at the front, waving his arms angrily at the cameraman. In fact, he looked like he was just about caught in the act of lunging for him to punch him on the nose. The caption said, Emotions run high at Radic funeral,but that wasn’t what made my breath catch in my throat and the hair stand on my head. I stared at the angry man and ice ran up my spine. I had no idea who he was, but I had seen him before.
I scrolled through the article, trying to find out who he was. To no avail. The reporter can’t have found out. He must be family, or a friend, or a loyal employee of some sort, a bodyguard or bouncer, even, I thought, struggling to keep my mind clear. I looked in Google Images for other pictures of the funeral, but that was the only one. The funeral was supposed to be private and the media had been asked not to attend or take pictures, not only by the family, but by the police, too, who did not want a fracas. Only that paper had broken the agreement. And their photo wasn’t exactly clear. Except for the man at the front. He was very clear. Unmistakeable, despite the anonymous sunglasses and suit. Something to do with the way he stood, with his imposing build, an impression of fierce determination. I’d caught only a glimpse of him yesterday in the street. But there was no doubt in my mind that it was him.
I stared at the photo, trying to damp down a rising tide of fear. The silence of the sleeping house began to feel less peaceful and more menacing. I thought about the man and where he might be right now and if he’d remember me and wonder. I had to tell the Lieutenant, I thought, dry-mouthed. I had to tell her straightaway. She’d given me her card. She’d said to ring any time, day or night, if I thought of anything. I had put the card in my wallet.
Taking hold of my courage, I went upstairs to get it, and my mobile. I put in the number. It r
ang and rang. No answer. Then it went into voicemail. That threw me. I had keyed myself up to tell her. And now she wasn’t there. I should leave a message. But there was just so much to say. I couldn’t explain it all, not like this. So in the end I just didn’t say anything. I’d try her again later, I thought. But I felt so jumpy, so nervous and upset. Excited too, though. I’d really found something important. Something that surely – surely – couldn’t be just a coincidence.
Mick. He had Captain Gaudry’s number, I thought, suddenly. I could reach the police that way. Forgetting I’d hung up on him last time he’d phoned, fumbling in my agitation, I hit his number. Thank God, he answered on the second ring. He sounded sleepy, and rather surprised. ‘Sylvie?’
‘Something important’s come up. I saw this guy yesterday in St-Bertrand, and he’s on the computer too, I think he’s involved, or at least there’s a link, and it’s connected with something in Australia, and I–’
‘Slow down, Sylvie. It’s nearly midnight. I’ve been asleep. My brain’s a bit slow. What the hell are you talking about?’
‘This guy I bumped into in the town yesterday, I only saw him for a minute but I’m sure it’s him in this photo and I’ve got to speak to the police about it but Lieutenant Jettou’s not answering her phone so I–’
‘I don’t understand a word you’re saying. You’re going to have to explain. What guy? What photo? What does it have to do with Australia? You’re not making sense, Sylvie.’
‘Sorry,’ I said, and I burst into tears.
‘Oh no, don’t do that,’ he said, gently. ‘Please. It’s okay. Are you at home? I’ll come over straightaway. You can tell me about it. And we can call the Captain together.’
‘Okay,’ I said, a huge wave of relief flooding over me. ‘I’m at home. Please hurry.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll be as quick as I can. And, Sylvie...’
‘Yes?’
‘Take care. Don’t open the door to anyone, okay?’
‘I’m hardly likely to at this time of night.’
‘Sure, but be careful. If there really is something in this, and the guy’s in town – then he might be lurking around somewhere.’
‘I know,’ I said, shivering, ‘I know that.’
‘Can you keep your doors and windows locked?’
‘I’m in Freddy’s study, downstairs,’ I said. The night seemed to press in at the windows. Freddy hadn’t closed the shutters. And there were no locks on the windows. Suddenly, I froze. What was that noise? I nearly screamed. Then I realised the noise was just the weights of the big clock in the hall, dropping, not a heavy footstep. I whispered, ‘Please, Mick, hurry.’
If I’d been thinking straight, I could have gone out of that study, up the stairs, woken up Freddy and Claire, got them to call the police. I didn’t know the French emergency number, only 000 in Australia. But I wasn’t thinking straight, anyway. I was dead scared of moving from where I was in case, in case he really was lurking around somewhere outside, or even in the house – that he’d got in somewhere, that he’d remembered seeing me in the street, had found out my name and my link both to the Aubracs and to the Radic thing and would come looking for me. I didn’t know how he would know that – our names had not been mentioned in the newspaper reports, only Helen’s – but fear doesn’t have to have any real basis to be real. My mind was just going in all directions, none of them useful.
‘I’m just leaving now,’ Mick said. ‘Hang on, okay.’
‘I’m scared,’ I said.
‘I know. Poor Sylvie. Don’t worry. It’ll be fine. I’m sure he’s not around. Look, leave the line open and if anything happens, yell, okay?’
‘Okay,’ I said in a small voice.
‘When I arrive, I’ll say so, all right? Only open the door then.’
‘Yep.’
‘Good. I’m driving so I’ll have to put the phone down on the seat, okay? But I’m still there on the end of the line if you need me.’
I whispered, ‘Thank you, Mick.’
‘It’s normal,’ he said. ‘You hang in there,’ and then his voice drifted away and I knew he must have put the phone down on the seat. I huddled on the floor under the windows behind the desk, the phone clutched to me, hearing engine noises on his line, and it comforted me. He would be here soon. Very soon. Thank God he was so capable. Sensible. Kind. Dear, dear Mick, I thought, wildly. When this is all over, I–
What was that? A tiny rustle, outside the door. I sat bolt upright, listening. Silence. It was nothing. I was imagining things. Why would that stranger have any idea who I was or how I was involved in anything? He must be pretty sure no-one would recognise him, so far from Thomas Radic’s funeral, or he’d not have shown himself like that. Of course, I thought, as the seconds and minutes ticked by, he might of course not be involved at all. It might just be a coincidence. He might be on holidays here or something. I mean, I was working on the assumption that somehow Daniel’s uncle was linked in some way with what had happened to Thomas Radic, and that this guy had found out and was seeking revenge, but I had no proof of that at all. And who was he, anyway? Why would he want revenge? I knew he wasn’t Thomas Radic’s father. I’d seen a picture of him and Mrs Radic. But he must be linked to them, somehow, or he wouldn’t have been at the funeral. I thought now of what Mr Radic had said to Helen, that they didn’t blame her for their son’s death but that ‘other problems’ had killed him. Did that mean then that instead they blamed whoever had set up the scam that had started their son on the road to ruin? And was that Udo, who had been vaguely linked with criminal elements but in fact was deeply involved in cyber-crime and so on?
I think they’re out to get Udo, Mick had said. I thought, he’s right. But how did that square with the kidnappers’ demand for the police to look into the activities of Fox Financial? If the Radics wanted revenge for their son’s death and had somehow found out about Udo’s involvement in the scam and sent out some kind of hitman, surely the guy would have gone straight to Udo and killed him or whatever it was they wanted? But maybe they couldn’t get close to him, I thought. He was too well-protected. And so they’d gone for his weak spot.
What was that? My ears were so sharpened by terror that I thought I would even hear a leaf falling. Something outside – a dislodged pebble, a click of – no, no – it was nothing. I spoke into the phone. ‘Please, Mick, hurry, I’m so scared.’
‘I’m just about there,’ he said, at once. ‘I’m parking the car.’ I could hear the engine noises stopping, the door opening. ‘I’ll be two seconds. Hang tight.’
‘Yes,’ I said, and at that moment the world exploded in hideous noise and shattering glass as someone burst through the study window straight at me. Too terrified even to scream, I only had time for a glimpse of a burly body in black jeans and T-shirt and a sinister balaclava through whose slits glared a pair of ferocious pale blue eyes, before something heavy came down on the back of my head and I knew no more.
Playing Judas
There’s a strange smell in my nostrils. My head feels full of cobwebs. The back of my throat and my mouth are dry. I ache all over.
I open my eyes. For an instant, I can’t think of where I am. What happened? I stare stupidly at what’s around me. Not that I can see much. It’s not completely dark in here – there’s a sliver of pale light coming from somewhere high up, so I’m in a kind of thick grey dimness rather than pitch black – but everything is unfamiliar. I put a hand gingerly down. I’m lying on something cool. Not stone or cement. More yielding. Dirt, I think, packed hard down. I put a hand behind me, and feel just air. I lever myself cautiously to my feet, and both arms held out in front of me, feel my way towards a wall. It’s cold, hard. Stone, this time. I walk a bit further and hit something else. Wood. Wood – and – my hands grope down – glass. Bottles. The smell is still in my nostrils, stronger now in fact and some reasoning thoughts start to struggle up from the cobwebby tangle and I know the smell is wine. I’m in a cellar. But what am I doing her
e?
As my eyes gradually become accustomed to the dim light, I start to make out a little more. The light’s coming from a small barred window high up on the wall. There are wine racks all along one wall, a kind of stone sink at one end with a bench beside it and empty bottles sitting in it. A couple are not quite empty, there are dregs in them, that’s probably what I can smell. The room is quite small, the air is close, but there’s a tiny breath of air coming from somewhere, though I can’t see where. There’s a wooden door. I try the handle, without hope. It doesn’t turn. I bang on the door but only succeed in hurting my knuckles. The door is thick, padded, heavy. There’s hardly even a sound. I am locked in and there is no way of getting out. The window is unreachable. Even if I managed to break the glass, there would still be the bars. And even if I was some kind of superhero and prised open the bars, the opening would still be too small for me to fit through.
The light coming through the window is pale, greyish. Not sunlight. Not artificial light. Moonlight, I think. It’s night. Memory’s returning now. I’ve been attacked. Abducted. He must have been outside. Prowling. Watching. Listening. Somehow, he must have heard what I said to Mick.
My heart leaps. Mick. He’d raise the alarm, for sure. He was nearly there when the guy snatched me. He’d realise what had happened as soon as he arrived. He’d tell the police everything. They were probably already out looking for me. And there was the computer, still freeze-framed no doubt on that picture I’d been looking at. It would give them a clue as to the identity of the kidnapper. They’d track him down. They’d find him.
I shiver. Yes, but first they’d have to know where he’d gone. This place – it could be anywhere, in any direction from St-Bertrand. Maybe even a long way from St-Bertrand. I had no idea how long I’d been here. I had no idea even how he’d taken me here. But he must have had a car. There was no other way to transport a limp unconscious body. He could hardly have put me on his back and walked off to his hide-out.
Bright Angel Page 16
