Massey scowled at her. His constant hostility was obvious. How he wished that the security service had sent someone else.
“Well, that's settled then.” Harcourt rose from her chair. She turned to Massey. “Come on, let's make a start. Grab an overnight bag and don't forget your toothbrush.”
Still scowling, Massey followed her towards the lift. Petra smiled as they disappeared to their rooms. Thirty love, she thought. By the end of the week, it should be game, set and match.
8888
Massey and Harcourt had left for Marseille. Until he had some news, Jean-Marie resumed his status of semi-retirement, leaving a text message for Petra to call if she needed him. Petra had other things on her mind…the intriguing grandmother of Alexis. As he was working away, she decided to take up the offer to visit her. Perhaps she could throw some light on what was going on. She appeared to be extremely perceptive.
They sat in the same chairs as on their first encounter. Alexis's grandmother served her a portion of brioche, sweet cake-like bread, and poured out the tea into her finest porcelain teacups. Petra stared at the cup and saucer. She was astounded, not by its quality but by its design.
Several years previously, the old woman's son, Alexis's father, had given the tea service as a present for her birthday. It rarely saw the light of day. Today was special. The china service was Le Papillon collection from La Maison de la Porcelaine at Aix sur Vienne, a town located south of Limoges. Each piece of Porcelaine du Lys Royal was decorated with sprigs of green oak leaves and mauve butterflies on a white base.
Petra shuddered. Her mind recollected Rob's choice for her new name, Louise Charrière. He had based it on the character of Louis Degas in the book, Papillon, and its creator, Henri Charrière. There was also the fortune-teller at the May fair who had compared her to an exotic butterfly. Was this merely coincidence or was Alexis's grandmother some mystic who could delve into her soul?
She wondered why she was there. Here I am, she thought, sitting in South West France, mesmerised by an old woman who served tea in cups adorned with butterflies. Why am I doing this? As the encounter progressed, Petra would become even more astounded by the dramatic story that was about to unfold.
“You are not here by chance, Louise. It is written in the stars. Fate has decreed that we should meet.”
She really is reading my mind, thought Petra.
The old woman settled herself comfortably in the chair. “I have an extraordinary story to tell, a secret that I have locked away in my heart for almost a century. I once thought about revealing it when Stalin died and again, following the collapse of the Berlin Wall in 1989, but something held me back. I'm of Russian lineage, you see, and some divine power chose me to be the guardian of a remarkable secret. When you arrived here with Alexis, I knew that now is the time.”
Petra stiffened, unable to sip her tea or eat her slice of cake. Was Alexis's grandmother rambling or about to reveal something of grave importance? She looked into the old woman's eyes. They sparkled with a far-away look, as though she could see something magical in the distance, some vivid image from the past. In reality, she was staring across the room at the rows of books filling each shelf of the bookcase.
“History, Louise.” The old woman lifted her silver-topped cane and pointed. “Those volumes contain reams of history, some accurate, some anecdotal, some based on assumptions or odd recollections from a specific period. They relate a never-ending chronicle of momentous and occasionally insignificant events. Yet, some episodes in the lives of our forebears are never recorded, never divulged, forever lost in the mists of time.”
She leaned forwards, took a sip of her tea and turned to face Petra. “What do you know about the number eight, my dear?”
What a strange question, thought Petra. Maybe she is just rambling, after all. She also sipped her tea, mostly to gain thinking time. “Don't the Chinese believe that it's a lucky number?” she replied, tentatively. Thank goodness for the HSBC advert on television, she thought.
“Absolutely,” said Alexis's grandmother. “In many Chinese dialects, it represents prosperity. However, it is a mystical number in many ways. It has a powerful influence in several religions and it is an important number in mathematical areas. You only have to look at it to realise that even visually, it is the strongest and most intriguing number that we use.”
Her ramblings engrossed Petra, who wondered where her remarks would lead.
The old woman continued. “Throughout my life, Louise, the number eight has already figured in many personal events, yet its influence is growing stronger. It even commenced its involvement before I was born. The number eight has finally reached the point in its impact on my family's life where I am ready to reveal my secret. First, however, a history lesson. Would you like more tea?”
“Yes, please. Thank you.” Petra watched her pour the tea whilst reflecting that history was hardly her favourite subject at school. “Why are you telling me this?” she asked. “I'm a complete stranger.”
“Not to me. A divine power has sent you here. I could see it in your face, the first moment when you walked through that door. You have experienced not only the tragedy of losing your parents, but also witnessed horrors and deaths in your own short life, just as they did all those years ago.”
Who are ‘they’, thought Petra, and what does she know about the dreadful events of the past few years? I mentioned about the tragedy of losing my parents in the tsunami, but how could she have known about the horrific attack that I experienced and the murders that took place?
The old woman continued. “You survived your tragic events. You are here because you have an inner strength. You are here for a purpose. The eights have come together and the time is fast approaching to shock the world.”
Petra swallowed hard. She's rambling again. She's definitely rambling.
Despite Petra's impression of her, the octogenarian remained quite calm and lucid as she spoke. “Unfortunately, I may not be here to experience the impact of the moment of truth. It is why you must be prepared to accept the responsibility…a duty entrusted to me throughout my life. What I am about to relate will not be your cross to bear. In the scheme of things, it will make you the most sought-after person in the world. It will be your story to tell.”
Petra shuddered. The words ‘one day, you will be famous’, uttered by the fortune-teller at the May fair in Knutsford resounded in her head. Sitting there in the apartment as Louise Charrière, she suddenly realised that Petra Rebovka could never become a figment of her past life.
The old woman relaxed into the comfort of the leather chair. “Let me start by giving you some family history. Alexis has dual nationality. He was born in the U.S.A. to a Russian father and a French mother. He has American and French passports. He speaks English and French and a little Russian. His mother died at the turn of this century. His father, my son Nickolas, died a few years later. Alexis's grandfather, my late husband, Alexei, died in the nineteen sixties. His great-grandmother along with her three sisters, her brother and her mother and father, Alexis's great-great-grandparents, all died at the same time together. All of them were shot…several times.”
She became silent and sipped more tea, whilst watching the expression on Petra's face.
Petra experienced some discomfort by the silence and felt obliged to say something. “Was that because of a war or something?”
The old woman replaced her cup on its saucer. “Before I was born, my dear, Russia was in turmoil. The whole nation became involved in the First World War. It went badly for the Russian people. Casualties were horrendously high…supplies were non-existent. Mutinies, strikes, riots and rebellions brought the country to the verge of total collapse. In 1915, the Tsar, Nicholas II, took on the role of commander-in-chief of the Russian armies. He allowed his wife, Empress Alexandra, to run the Duma, the government, whilst he directed the war offensive from Stavka headquarters at the front. Alexandra believed in autocracy not constitutional governance and persu
aded Nicholas that the Duma should be dismissed, resulting in a ministerial revolt.”
This must be the history lesson, thought Petra, trying her utmost to look interested.
She continued. “Political unrest persisted throughout the war years, causing the Tsar to abdicate in March 1917 following the February revolution in St. Petersburg. At that time, they renamed it Petrograd in response to rampant Germanophobia and the war. The Tsar, despite his contempt for his brother, Grand Duke Mikhail, named him to be the next Emperor of All the Russias, but there were constitutional problems and a Provisional Government was set in place.”
She lowered her voice because, in her mind, she was about to impart something of a scandalous nature. “You see, Grand Duke Mikhail, though liked enormously for his prowess in almost every aspect of life and academia, had a succession of romantic affairs that were incongruous with the fundamental laws of succession to the Russian throne. He had also fallen in love with Nathalie Sheremetevskaya, otherwise known as Nathalie Mamontov and Natasha Wulfert. She was not once, but twice divorced. The Grand Duke's affair with her, therefore, caused monumental problems, even more so when she became pregnant and produced a son, George. They also married secretly in Vienna, breaking an honourable promise to his brother, Nicholas.”
The old woman raised her voice once more. “Following the abdication of the Tsar, the Romanov family, that is the Tsar, his wife and all their children were placed under house arrest in the Alexander Palace at a place called Tsarskoye Selo, not far from St. Petersburg. In August 1917, the Provisional Government evacuated the family to the Governor's Mansion in Tobolsk in the Urals. They remained there until their transfer to the house of a rich merchant, Nikolai Ipatiev, at Ekaterinburg in the following April, where they were imprisoned. The communists renamed it, ‘The House of Special Purpose’. In July 1918 the whole family and some of their attendants were executed.”
“Oh, my God…how awful,” Petra said, not fully grasping the impact of what she had just heard.
“They were all shot several times. Remember what I said about Alexis's great-great-grandparents?”
“Wow! Oh, my!” Petra almost dropped her porcelain teacup. “They were the Romanov family. But you said that the whole family was assassinated.”
The old woman leaned forwards. “Would you like some more tea or would you prefer something stronger?”
Her arm reached over the side of her chair and produced a bottle of vodka. “I enjoy the odd tipple now and again,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.
Without waiting for a reply, she poured a generous tot of Absolut into each of their cups. “Good health,” she said, gulping it back in one. “Alexis bought this from the local supermarket. Compared to the vodka I used to drink in Russia, it's rubbish. What can you expect in France? It's a country of winos.”
Petra managed to drain her cup with two swallows. She gasped slightly as the liquid hit the back of her throat. Replacing her cup on the table, she wondered what would be next. Alexis's grandmother seemed to be full of surprises. Petra suppressed a giggle and sank back into her chair. The spirit had gone straight to her head.
The old woman smiled. “What I have told you so far, you can find in most books on Russian history. What I am about to tell you is known only to me.” She grasped the vodka bottle again. “Another?”
“No, thank you. I think that I need to keep a clear head, but don't let me stop you.”
“When I was young,” said the old woman, “I could manage a whole bottle, no problem, but now that I am older I have to drink in moderation or I fall asleep.” She smiled again. “One more tot won't go amiss and today is rather special.” She poured another generous helping and relaxed once more into her chair. “Now I am ready to tell my story.”
8888
Massey drove the first leg of the journey down the A20 motorway, known as L'Occitane, to just beyond Brive-la-Gaillarde. Before setting off, Harcourt had checked the maps and decided against using the motorway to Toulouse. The weather was perfect. She preferred the scenic route across the mountains. They left the motorway at junction fifty-six to cut across a spectacular landscape towards Rodez. Their journey continued along twisting roads through the mountains and valleys before joining the A75 motorway, La Méridienne.
This took them over the Viaduc de Millau, a cable-stayed bridge spanning the river Tarn in the southern region of the Massif Central. Opened in 2004 by President Chirac, it is the tallest road bridge in the world, rising to almost 350 metres in height. Its construction has opened up the motorway route connecting Paris to Montpellier and the Languedoc Region.
The iconic bridge was also about to connect the two detectives to a melting pot of intrigue and personal danger. The comfort zone of Limousin would be a far cry from the hotbed of Marseille. Harcourt reckoned that the trip was worthwhile, if only to marvel at such a spectacular feat of modern engineering. Massey was unconvinced.
They stopped for a sandwich and coffee at the Aire du Larzac service area, a short distance beyond the bridge. Having reinvigorated themselves in the rarefied atmosphere at over 800 metres above sea level, they continued through the mountainous region, sweeping in and out of tunnels blasted deep into the rocky terrain.
Within an hour of their refreshment break, they had descended from the Rochers de la Pezade onto the coastal area of Languedoc Rousillon, stopping once again for a short break near Montpellier. The final stage of the journey took them across the Parc Naturel Régional de Camargue, famous for its black bulls, pink flamingos and wild horses. Having crossed the busy river Rhône at Arles, they arrived at their destination, Marseille, at seven in the evening. Finding suitable hotel accommodation became their immediate priority.
They found rooms at the New Hotel, a recently renovated building close to Le Vieux Port, the old port area. Themed rooms were available, a feature that Harcourt found irresistible. Before opening her holdall, she sat on her bed soaking in the tasteful ambience of the room, Mille et Une Nuits, a Thousand and One Nights.
The receptionist had allotted Massey Afrique Noire, a room themed with pictures and ornaments of African origin. The images caused him to wonder how many illegal immigrants had passed through this cosmopolitan port from that vast continent across the Mediterranean. From his open window, he could see the bustling streets and breathe in the spice-laden aromas rising from below. Compared to Greater Manchester, this was indeed an alien world.
Half an hour later, the detectives met at the bar for aperitifs before exploring the nearby port area for a restaurant. They were spoiled for choice, discovering that the whole waterfront was a gourmet's oasis. Harcourt led the way, inspecting each menu on display like a seasoned connoisseur.
“First, we just have to try the Bouillabaisse,” Harcourt said, reading from the menu in their chosen restaurant.
When based in London, Massey's normal diet had consisted of Indian or Chinese takeaways interspersed with microwavable ready meals. He would wash down these culinary convenience dishes with copious quantities of whisky. Little wonder that he had succumbed to a mild cardiac arrest during that period of his life. Changes in his diet had been a priority. Salads, fresh fruit, fish and pasta dishes had become the norm, despite confessing to being a roast beef and Yorkshire pudding addict.
“What is it?” he asked, following her suggestion.
“It's a traditional soup made from local fish and seafood,” Harcourt replied. “Trust me, the anticipation of enhancing your taste buds by sampling some exotic new dish will revitalise your flagging energy levels.”
Massey grunted. He wished that he were back at the Beacon in Derbyshire. He looked across at Harcourt's oval face, her bright eyes, full lips and sleek hair. He could instantly understand why D.S. Newton had described his relationship with her as purely sexual. In his mind, she was socially and intellectually a bloody nightmare.
Begrudgingly, he admitted that the concoction of the classic French dish with its herbs and spices was delicious. For the main course,
he opted for a steak served with salad. Harcourt chose poulet provençale, chicken in a tomato, herb and spice sauce. They shared a bottle of Fitou and took the opportunity to discuss their plans for the following morning.
Later, alone in his room, Massey decided that the best course of action in dealing with Harcourt's obsessive quest in relation to Michel Dumas was to indulge her. Helping her to achieve some success would hasten their return to the U.K. where he could melt back into his comfort zone.
His new appointment at Ashton had hardly made its mark before she had whisked him off on this meaningless crusade. His other anxiety centred on Petra Rebovka. Powers far beyond his control had destroyed his efforts at bringing her to justice. She must be laughing at him. What was she really up to in Limoges? Though determined to resolve that issue before leaving France, he would be powerless to prevent circumstances from conspiring against him.
8888
The light was fading. Storm clouds were gathering again. The old woman switched on a small table lamp by her chair. Her face shone, radiant in the golden glow, as though animated by her inner anticipation of what she was about to reveal. The rest of the room faded into the approaching gloom. The storyteller was well and truly in the spotlight.
The moment reminded Petra of her own mother's bedtime stories. When they were young children, Klara, her sister, used to sleep in the same room. Her mother would sit between their beds and read to her two daughters until they both slipped into their individual dream worlds. That previous life seemed lost in time, a throwback to another world. Dramatic revelations from a far darker past life were about to bring her fleeting nostalgia into perspective.
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