Newton was just as surprised by Harcourt's announcement as his boss. He was interested to see how he would handle it. He decided to keep the discussion alive. “I would imagine that they are destined for safe houses in the north and south of the country where they will be briefed and equipped. They'll probably attack their individual targets at a given time. Simultaneous hits would cause immense disruption to our infrastructure. If footie grounds in the North West have been targeted, an existing cell will control them in somewhere like Bradford, Leeds or Blackburn, towns where they could blend in with the existing ethnic population.”
Massey was shell-shocked. His despondent feelings resulted from a combination of the real prospect of widespread carnage and Harcourt's sudden disclosure. He tried to put on a phlegmatic expression by focussing on Newton's remarks. “There are ethnic communities in every conurbation. They could have taken refuge in any other major town. Surely, we should be working with the intelligence services here. They must have picked up increased communications traffic from their covert ops.”
Harcourt needed to justify her arrangements. “Project Nexus, the European task force, will need more specific intelligence before committing their already stretched resources. That's where we come in. We have two dead Frenchmen to investigate. I admit that they could be tourists or innocent visitors but that is highly unlikely considering the circumstances of their deaths. If we accept that they could be potential terrorists, we have to prove it one way or the other.”
Massey was refusing to submit. “So, how would a dash across the channel help? We won't have any jurisdiction in France.”
“If we can find evidence to connect the two stiffs here with organised crime there, we can pass on any info.”
“So, what's the role of this Louise woman? Isn't that her mission?”
“As I explained earlier, the agent from our security services already in situ is poised to infiltrate the possible source of these questionable arrivals in the U.K. Once we know the source and how the system works, that knowledge could assist in tracing the loose ends here. By liaising with her, we can report our findings based on a thorough objective investigation. That way, we can act quickly before involving specialist teams on what could be a wild goose chase.”
Massey was still unconvinced. “Surely, she can accomplish that without our involvement.”
Harcourt was not prepared to yield to Massey's objections. “If we sit on our backsides here and wait for the French to act, we could be sitting on a time-bomb. Can you imagine the carnage that suicide bombers would cause in a forty to fifty thousand capacity stadium?”
Newton was enjoying the contest between the two senior officers. It was coming to the boil nicely, he thought. He had to fan the flames. “Almost eighty thousand if they hit Old Trafford.”
Massey turned to Harcourt. “I take your point, but it's such short notice. Is there no one else who could step in? I'm in the process of a major house move. My furniture arrives this weekend. I intended to spend the time moving in and unpacking.” He looked at Newton. “I bet you're free to go this weekend.”
Before Newton could reply, Harcourt stepped in. “We've been specifically assigned to the investigation. Superintendent Richardson was insistent that your experience of dealing with the French authorities would be invaluable.”
“That reputation is a load of bollocks. I was fortunate to have a member in my team who had a moderate grasp of the language.”
Harcourt could see the winning post. “It'll be a breeze. Most foreigners speak English these days, especially those in positions of authority. Besides, we'll have an agent in situ who is most likely French, so we can rely on her. I promise that when we get back, we'll organise a moving-in party for you. Out of Ashton and Bootle Street nicks, I'm sure we'll have plenty of volunteers. Just lay on a few beers and we'll sort you out in no time.”
Newton could hardly contain himself. “Count me in. That's a great idea.”
Damn, thought Massey. There go my plans with Caroline. It sounds like a complete waste of time, effort and money. How the hell has she wangled an unnecessary trip abroad?
Harcourt consulted her diary again. “Monsieur Fauchet, the ex-gendarme, has booked us in at the Hotel Mercure Royal Limousin. It's central in Limoges and we can rent a vehicle at the airport. As the French say… fait accompli.”
Lucky bastard, that Massey, thought Newton. He always comes up smelling of bloody roses. I hope his ticker can cope with her after his recent heart attack. Mind you, what a great way to go.
Massey was lost for words. Within hours of taking up his new appointment, his enthusiasm for the challenges ahead lay in shreds. Doubts were emerging about his decision to move on from the Metropolitan Police. Damn the timing, he thought. One week later and we could have avoided all this. Why do the politics of policing always hinder the proper implementation of the role? My focus is detective work, not gadding about chasing illegals in a foreign country. I've been stitched up like a kipper. Where was Dave Newton when I needed him? Some friend he's turned out to be.
Massey looked across at his detective sergeant. He thought that he glimpsed a smile on his face.
Newton stifled a laugh. Seeing Harcourt manipulate the normally reliable and disciplined Massey with such consummate ease was an unusual sight. “How about one for the road? You won't find any decent beer over there.” He turned towards the bar, mostly to hide the wide grin that engulfed his face.
8888
Petra awoke to a ringing sensation. Her eyes narrowed against the harsh influx of daylight as she checked her watch. The doorbell to the apartment rang once more. Bloody hell, she thought, it's only half past seven. Who on earth is that at this unearthly hour? She pulled on a lambswool sweater and wearing nothing else apart from her briefs, walked barefoot to the door and ran downstairs.
Jean-Marie stood there. He smiled at the scantily clad young woman before him. “Late night, mademoiselle?”
“Why are you so early? Don't you French people sleep?”
He looked at his watch. “It is soon nine. Normally I start at eight.”
The realisation hit her. “Oh no. I forgot about the hour difference. I'm sorry; I'll be as quick as I can. You had better come in and wait. Have I time for a quick shower?”
“Certainly. I make coffee for you.” He walked to the kitchen; he seemed to know his way around. “There is an intercom in the apartment. It is not necessary to answer the door without your clothes.”
Petra blushed and quickly headed towards the bathroom. He must think that I'm some scatty bimbo, she thought. Some first impression.
Ten minutes later, her hair still damp, but now fully clothed, Petra sipped some coffee, downed a glass of fruit juice and munched a croissant and a pain-chocolat. Jean-Marie had slipped out to buy some fresh pastries from the local boulangerie whilst she was in the shower. She could now relax. He seemed very much the gentleman.
On leaving the apartment, he led the way to his car farther along the street. “Aujourd'hui nous parlons en Français, n'est-ce pas? Je vous amène maintenant à La Bastide. Il faut souvenir la route. Dimanche après-midi vous roulez toute seule regarder le foot. Compris?”
“Oui. Today, we are speaking French. You're showing me the way to La Bastide because I'll be going there by myself on Sunday afternoon to watch a footie match.”
“Bien, Louise.”
He swung a right onto a street that led away from the town centre, bringing them to a roundabout. He explained that she should follow the N20, Rue François Chénieux, staying on that same road beyond Place Sadi Carnot. Afterwards, the road changed its name to Avenue Général Leclerc until it became Boulevard Robert Schuman. Shortly before she arrived at the Limoges Exhibition Centre, she should turn right into La Bastide. Here it became somewhat more intricate.
On arrival in La Bastide, Jean-Marie drove past the local gendarmerie. It commanded a corner site adjacent to the shopping centre where groups of males had congregated outside a bar tabac. Petr
a made notes. Following the road farther into the main residential area of high-rise flats, they passed a school and arrived at the football ground. He showed her where to park on Sunday.
Petra was disappointed with le stade. It was simply a football pitch, an all-weather terrain with no grass, surrounded by a metal spectator barrier. Along one side, a modern block housed the changing room facilities for the teams and officials. On the far side stood a wooden cabin that, as Jean-Marie explained, opened on match days. It provided refreshments for supporters and participants alike. There was no covered stand where one could sit to watch the game. Though grass-roots football flourished throughout France, facilities at this level varied considerably, depending on local commune investment in sporting facilities.
Jean-Marie suggested that they find a café bar away from La Bastide. Her enquiries could be compromised if someone recognised her as having accompanied a known ex-gendarme. They drove out of the area and found a café bar not too far distant. Her companion ordered a coffee. Petra preferred a fruit juice. He asked her if she would be able to remember the way to le stade on Sunday afternoon. She felt confident, especially with having taken notes. She asked him for his advice with regard to making inroads with the players.
He explained that he would be meeting two detectives who were flying over from the U.K. on Sunday morning. He would be meeting them at their hotel in Limoges and would ask them to accompany him to the match that afternoon. They would be staying at the Hotel Mercure Royal.
He thought that it would be imprudent for her to make contact with him or his visitors until later in the day, perhaps back at the hotel, which she would find next to Galeries Lafayette. In other words, she would be on her own at the match. He suggested that she should watch from the vicinity of the bar where most of the players congregated after the match and sometimes at half-time.
He tried to explain why she should choose that vantage point. “Vous êtes mignonne; utilisez vos avoirs. Soyez charmante.”
“What is ‘mignonne’? I don't know that word.”
He smiled. “Très jolie comme Brigitte Bardot quand elle était jeune. Per'aps, in English you say: a sweet young woman. Maybe Brigitte Bardot is bad example. It was long time ago.” The faraway look in his eyes betrayed nostalgia for a bygone era.
Pretty I may be, thought Petra, but how does one be charming in French with scant vocabulary?
They left the café bar and walked towards Jean-Marie's car. He spoke to her in English. “You understand all I say today?”
“For the most part. There are some words that I don't know, but I understand the general meaning. You speak to me slowly, so that's a great help.”
“On the way, you make notes to remember the route. You make the same with words. You listen, you ask, you write, you remember. It is good idea.”
They reached the vehicle. He looked at his watch. He had spent a lifetime checking his watch. It had been routine for him to know the exact time in his gendarme role. On completion of his initial training with the gendarmerie at Paris, his first post was at Guéret in the Creuse, a Département in the Limousin region. After a spell there, he opted to broaden his experience by transferring outre-mer…in France's overseas Départements. Following a period at Pointe-à-Pitre on the island of Guadeloupe and a short attachment on Martinique, he joined the traffic police division on the island of La Réunion in the Indian Ocean. On his return to Europe and France métropolitaine, he joined the gendarmerie at Bellac, some thirty kilometers north of Limoges. He remained there until his retirement. Some habits from his career stayed with him. Checking his watch regularly was second nature.
Before driving off, he turned to Petra. “At mid-day, friends visit me at my ‘ouse. My wife, she make apéritif et casse-croûte, a small refreshment. You must come also. It is good experience to meet other French people and to speak more French, yes?”
“Thank you,” Petra said, though not too enamoured with his suggestion. “You live in Limoges?”
“We live not far in a small town, which calls itself Couzeix. Now we make detour. I show you Zone Industrielle Nord and Centre Commercial at Beaubreuil. In this place, you find many shops, commerce, restaurants and hotels. It is…'ow you say…out of town centre of shopping, yes?”
“Sounds interesting.”
“If you enjoy shopping like most young persons, you must also go during your stay to Centre Commercial Saint-Martial in Limoges. There are many shops with the fashions for young woman like you. It is not far from your apartment. One can walk there. You find it on the street map.”
Petra wondered if he had any family. He seemed to be tuned in to the lifestyles of young people. She wanted to ask, but was aware that it was impolite to ask personal questions of French people. They would open up when they became better acquainted and knew that you were a person to be trusted. She decided to wait.
They turned onto the N20 towards the motorway, where they exited via a slip road leading to the vast shopping complex of Beaubreuil. Jean-Marie pointed out various areas of possible interest to her: the Cora shopping mall, the drive-thru McDonald's and the huge E. Leclerc hypermarket. They emerged from the commercial park into more open countryside that led to Couzeix.
Jean-Marie and his wife lived on the outskirts of the town in a modern pavillon style property, the equivalent of a dormer bungalow. A neat garden containing an ornamental wheelbarrow overflowing with geraniums and trailing plants fronted the bungalow. A series of stone steps gave access to the main entrance and an enclosed tiled terrace set back behind four white pillars. The property was south facing, guaranteeing a sunny eating out area during the summer months. The whole property supported an extensive garden comprising lawns, fruit trees and flowerbeds. Along one side of the plot, a small greenhouse completed a well-organised kitchen garden, where an abundance of vegetables still flourished. A stiff hedgehog-shaped brush for scraping mud from shoes sat guarding the spotless mat by the front entrance.
Petra smiled. A property that was attractive, functional and immaculate, she thought. It was an indication of Jean-Marie's lifestyle and mind-set. She could rely on his attention to detail and organised routine.
The ex-gendarme introduced Petra to his wife, a buxom homely person who seemed to possess a constant smile. Their friends, who had already arrived, also made her welcome. They, in turn, introduced her to Pastis 51, a taste not immediately to her liking. Nevertheless, it grew more palatable with every sip of the aniseed-flavoured drink.
On the table, his wife had spread charcuterie, a choice of cold meats and saucisson, slices of salame. In addition, there was a basket of freshly cut baguette, salad with vinaigrette, a range of cheeses, Brie, Cantal, Bleu d'Auvergnes and a large homemade fruit tart. He had referred to it as light refreshment, thought Petra. This is no snack; it's a feast. There was a choice of red or white wine. Coffee followed the meal together with Cognac and Calvados.
Jean-Marie's visitors lived at Condat-sur-Vienne, south of Limoges and they offered to drop Petra off at her apartment on their way home. She was grateful not to be driving. A relaxing siesta beckoned. During her stay, she would learn that the French offer genuine hospitality, in which food and drink are a major part of their social life. Deserted streets and busy restaurants during two-hour lunch breaks during the working week bore witness to that.
Petra had warmed to the retired gendarme. He showed patient understanding towards her situation and undoubtedly possessed a wealth of experience. She had learned more from him in her first twenty-four hours in France than she could have hoped to extract from a guidebook. He imparted information like an artist creating an oil painting, adding colour and depth, layer upon layer until the picture was complete.
Exhausted but satisfied with her first full day and mellowed by the pastis, she slept until the evening. She decided to eat out again at Le Café 1900, have an early night and spend the following morning, Saturday, exploring the shops. After lunch, she would tour Limoges in the car, as Jean-Marie had suggested.
So far, her mission had been most enjoyable. She realised that Sunday may change the current mood of relaxation when she would have to face making contact with the players of La Bastide football club. She feared that this could be the quiet before the storm. On the other hand, she thought that maybe socialising with a group of fit young Frenchmen might not be such an ordeal. Perhaps there were other pleasant experiences to savour. She was unaware that an adversary from her past life was about to shatter that illusion.
8888
The Boeing 737-800 crossed low over the three sculptured lakes of Saint Pardoux on its final descent into Limoges International Airport. From her window seat, D.C.I. Harcourt watched the passing landscape below.
She turned to D.C.I. Massey sitting alongside her. “It looks very green and lush down there. I expected it to be parched from the heat of the summer.”
“We're not that far south,” Massey replied. “I believe the Limousin region is an area of lakes and forests, very agricultural.”
“Mmm, someone's been doing their homework. I was anticipating lounging by the pool in my bikini. Are you saying that it's not hot in this part of France?”
Massey smiled at her flippancy. “Apparently, the weather here is very seasonal. At this time of the year, it's probably still warm during the day but chilly in the evenings. I would advise bed socks rather than bikinis.”
“How disappointing. We had better hire a car with a good heating system.”
The noise from the aircraft's engines changed as flaps slowly slid outwards from the wings. Soon, roads and hamlets were flashing swiftly by amongst the multi-coloured patchwork of fields. As they descended, houses with neat gardens and terracotta roof tiles came into view. Some properties flaunted turquoise swimming pools, a sign of hot summers rather than affluence. There was a thud and a squeal as the wheels of the aircraft hit the runway. The reverse thrust roared as the braking systems reduced the speed of the passenger jet almost to a standstill. At the end of the runway, the Boeing turned and trundled its way towards the terminal building.
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