Eight

by James R. Vance

  Standing in the kitchen, Petra noticed an anomaly in the size of the adjacent dining room in respect of the line of the outside wall running from the kitchen. She expected to discover another room, but there appeared to be no access. She paced out the missing area and walked through to the far side of the dining room. She estimated that she was unable to account for an area of four or five square metres. What lay within the missing cavity?

  She searched on all sides to find some kind of ingress. Maybe there was a sliding panel, but she discovered nothing of that sort. She went outside to check the exterior wall… to no avail. Along the suspect wall of the dining room, there was a massive floor to ceiling glass-fronted china cabinet. Though empty, it appeared to be a permanent fixture.

  Petra looked down at the oak-stained parquet floor to the left of the fitment. Two parallel lines formed by faint indentations to the wooden floor blocks attracted her attention. The tramline effect extended to almost two metres in length. She walked to the other end of the cabinet. There were no lines. Intrigued, she pushed gently against the side of the fitment. It slid gently and silently away from her, following the line of the wall. Runners, top and bottom, acted as guides and held it in place. The hidden part of the wall revealed a flush-fitting sliding door.

  Astonished, Alexis reverted to swearing in French. “Merde. I think we've hit the jackpot.”

  Petra merely smiled rather triumphantly. “Is this what you've been looking for?”

  “It's probably just a cupboard for his ill-gotten gains.”

  She slid back the door to reveal a short passageway and stone steps leading to a basement. They descended into darkness to discover a secret cellar. Petra ran her fingers over the dank walls within the doorway. She found a light switch.

  “Oh, my God!” She stood and gasped at what they had unearthed. Their eyes wandered around the room, transfixed by everything before them.

  Alexis stared at the nearest wall. “He's a bloody fascist.”

  Petra scrutinised the wall opposite. “And a communist.” She turned to the far wall. “Also a supporter of Jihad and Al Qaeda.”

  Plastered on the walls were pictures, newspaper cuttings, memorabilia and assorted emblems, ranging from a photo of Stalin, a hammer and sickle flag, posters of swastikas and pictures of Hitler at the Nurembourg rally to a replica of the Auschwitz sign, Arbeit Macht Frei. One wall displayed more recent pictures of Osama Bin Laden, the twin towers atrocity, the London tube and bus bombings, the USS Cole attack, the Bali bomb blast and other terrorism news items.

  “Incredible.” Alexis stood in the centre of the room with his hands on his hips.

  Petra wandered around the room feasting her eyes with morbid curiosity. “It's his place of worship. He appears to worship every ideology that threatens western civilisation and democratic freedoms. He must be some kind of fanatical supporter of radical doctrines. He's obviously opposed to the established order and is hell-bent on destroying our values.”

  Alexis joined her. “He's a one-man crusader of evil.”

  Petra nodded in agreement, the startling imagery causing her to lower her guard. “This needs to be communicated to the intelligence service. We may have stumbled on someone who could be a vital link in a chain, a key component in a complex network of terrorist activity.”

  Alexis stood and stared at her. He swallowed hard, intent on maintaining his own secret. “How come you know so much?”

  “I read a lot,” Petra replied, nonchalantly, and then bit her tongue. The more time that she spent in his company, the more difficult it became to maintain her student image.

  She walked across the room to a desk, on which were a telephone, an outdated answering machine, a laptop and numerous pots containing assorted pens and felt-tips. Below this paraphernalia, two columns each of three drawers supported the scratched surface of the wooden desk. Surprisingly, the drawers were unlocked.

  Alexis joined her, examining the contents of each of the drawers. Most were full of paperwork and various folders, which he scrutinised in turn. Petra opened one drawer to find it full of incriminating materials: blank I.D. cards, mobile phones, sim cards, a wad of euro notes, some sterling and maps of Great Britain. There were several passports in various stages of preparation. All were used, probably stolen, most had the original photographs removed and many were in an unfinished state. In another drawer, she discovered some small cassettes that she presumed were for the answering machine. Out of curiosity, she pressed the play button on the machine. The message was in French, too garbled for her to understand in detail. She replayed it for Alexis to translate.

  He listened and shrugged his shoulders. “It concerns a delivery. Something about two consignments arriving Friday, no documentation required…everything in order for shipment…hardly incriminating.”

  “Unless it's some kind of coded message.” There was a second one. They both listened.

  Alexis translated again. “Almost the same. This time it's a single item arriving Tuesday, documents required for immediate shipment. Emergency transport needed for ‘c-d-man’, whatever that is.” He managed a shrug of indifference. “Your guess is as good as mine.” He gave the impression of dismissing the taped messages by returning to scrutinise the files.

  Petra flicked the tape from the machine, slipped it into her jacket pocket and replaced it with one from the drawer. Her mobile rang and vibrated. “Hello, hello,” she answered. It crackled and faded. There was insufficient signal strength in the cellar. It was too deep and remote from the main house. “I'll take it upstairs,” she announced, heading for the doorway.

  Alexis was engrossed in the paperwork. “I'll continue checking these drawers.”

  When she reached the dining room, she checked the signal bar…still not good. She opened the front door and walked a short distance from the house to a spot near her vehicle where the reception improved. The screen displayed a missed call from Jean-Marie. She phoned him.

  He answered immediately. “I try to call you, Louise.”

  “I know. I was unable to get a signal, but it's okay now.”

  “The news is not good. The police judiciaire interrogate Roche and they search the ‘ouse yesterday, but they find no proof to connect ‘im to the photos of the two young men. The magistrate say it is necessary to release him.”

  “It's okay. Alexis and I have…” Petra suddenly realised what he had said. “Release him? When?”

  “I not know. I only now receive the information. Perhaps ‘e is already free. Why you ask?”

  At that moment, a black Citroen C5 drew up outside the house. A heavily built individual emerged from the vehicle, slamming shut the door. He looked very ill tempered. He glanced across briefly at Petra before striding towards his property.

  Shit…that's Roche! He's back already, she thought. He'll find Alexis. She pocketed her mobile and raced towards the house as Roche entered through the open door. He slammed it behind him, loudly cursing the gendarmerie for leaving it ajar. On reaching the entrance, Petra rang the doorbell incessantly, hoping that it would alert Alexis. The door swung open again. Roche glared at her.

  Before either could speak, Alexis stepped from the hidden doorway. Clutching a bulky folder, he stood staring at them from the far end of the hallway. On hearing the movement behind him, Roche turned, shouted and ran towards him. Alexis remained motionless, rooted like a rabbit in the glare of headlamps.

  Petra screamed at him. “Run for it, Alexis!” Instinctively, her hand dropped into her shoulder bag and gripped the Sig Sauer.

  Alexis turned but it was too late. Roche brought him down in a manner befitting any professional rugby player. They tumbled to the floor, scattering the folder contents across the corridor.

  Petra withdrew the firearm, spread her legs for a firm stance and, with both hands extended, levelled the gun at Roche. “Arrêtez!” she shouted.

  Roche turned his head, the weight of his bulky frame still pinning Alexis to the tiled floor beneath him. Now Petra w
as in full view.

  “Oh, my God,” Alexis uttered, seeing his new student friend transformed into a gun-toting vigilante. “What the…?”

  There was a loud click, causing his voice to trail away. A glint of steel flashed across his face. A flick knife pressed against his throat.

  Roche pierced Petra with his dark threatening eyes. “Laissez tomber,” he snarled. He gripped Alexis, pulling him closer towards his chest, keeping the knife poised menacingly across the young man's neck.

  “He wants you to drop the gun,” Alexis whispered, looking first at her and then glancing up at Roche without moving his head.

  Petra weighed her limited options. She could easily take him out but he might still drag the blade across his captive's throat as he fell away. She slowly leaned forward. Placing the handgun deliberately on the floor, she stepped backward, raising her hands away from her body.

  Roche raised himself upright, dragging Alexis towards the discarded weapon with his muscular arms. As he reached down to pick up the gun, he hurled his captive to one side.

  Petra brought the full force of her leg towards his head. Roche threw himself sideways, grabbed the Sig with one hand and Petra's outstretched foot with the other. She arched backwards, crashing her head against an oak linen chest.

  Blood from her head wound stained the floor tiles; pale mottled grey turned to deep crimson. For Petra, everything turned black.

  8888

  Harcourt drummed her fingers on the counter. “We need to speak with him, that's all,” she said impatiently.

  The blue-shirted gendarme stared at Massey, who stood impassively to one side. Harcourt thrust herself back into the uniformed officer's line of vision.

  “Surely, you must know how we can contact him. I'm led to believe that he is a well-known figure in Marseille. It's a matter of great urgency.”

  Without speaking, the blue shirt walked away from his position behind the desk, stepped through a reinforced glass panelled doorway and disappeared from view.

  Throwing her arms about in exasperation, Harcourt turned to Massey. “What's wrong with these people? It was a simple enough request.”

  Massey checked his watch. “If he's gone to lunch, we could be hanging around for two hours or more. Try speaking in French if he returns. He may be more receptive.”

  Before she could reply, the door re-opened and a plain-clothed officer entered. Tall and well built with dark short-cropped hair, chiselled sun-tanned features, he cut an impressive figure as he approached the two detectives. He shook their hands and introduced himself.

  “Capitaine Thoury at your service. I understand that we have a slight language problem. I speak English. I have studied in London.” He waved them towards an adjacent wooden bench where they could sit. “Shall we…?”

  The English detectives sat next to each other. The captain sat to one side and leaned forward to speak.

  “The officer says that you have some problem with Monsieur Michel Dumas?”

  “Not a problem,” Harcourt said, turning on her usual charm. This ‘outstanding specimen of law enforcement’, as she later described him, immediately captivated her. “If you could put us in contact, we would like to speak with him. We are following up the murder of a young Frenchman in Manchester, England. The trail has led us here to Marseille.”

  “So, what is the connection with Monsieur Dumas?”

  “We still don't know the identity of the victim,” continued Harcourt. “The only lead we had was a membership card of a football club in Limoges. We have since discovered that the card was fake and the manager of the football club, Ludovic Roche, had a criminal background, originated from Marseille and allegedly, was a close friend of Michel Dumas. We would merely like to interview him in the course of our continued enquiries.”

  The captain nodded. “I am aware of the two French youths who died in North West England. I have read the reports. There is an assumption that they could have been illegal immigrants. That is possible. I also know about Ludovic Roche. He was a habitual felon here before he relocated to Limoges. He is currently on the run, as you say. The police are searching for him at this moment.”

  “Why is he on the run?” Massey asked. “Has he committed another crime?”

  “There is a tentative connection with your investigation as the police in Limoges have been searching his house for evidence that could link him to people trafficking. After he was interrogated at the gendarmerie, he attacked one of your English colleagues, who had to be admitted to hospital a short while ago.”

  “Oh, my God,” Harcourt exclaimed. “That must have been Louise.”

  “Petra,” Massey muttered under his breath. “Probably poking her nose in again. I told you that she was trouble.”

  Harcourt turned to the captain. “How is she? Is she badly hurt?”

  Thoury shook his head. “I have no further details.”

  Not wishing to be drawn into a discussion about Petra Rebovka, Massey quickly changed the subject. They were in Marseille to check on Michel Dumas. The sooner that issue was resolved, the sooner they could leave.

  “So, would you be able to assist us in contacting Monsieur Dumas? His address or telephone number would help. I noticed his yacht in the port last night, but today it appears to have set sail. Is that an indication that he is no longer in Marseille?”

  Thoury smiled. “If you wish to speak with him, it can be arranged. Have you any plans for this evening?”

  Massey looked inquiringly at Harcourt and turned back to face the police captain. “What had you in mind?”

  “You are in luck. Tonight Marseille have a match at the Stade Vélodrome. Dumas rarely misses a home game. I guarantee that, as a passionate supporter, he will attend. I can provide you with passes to join him in the directors’ reception area and, if you wish, you can not only speak with Dumas, but also watch our team progress in Europe.”

  “Football…that's interesting.” Harcourt reflected on their discussion with D.S. Newton in Manchester. “We would be delighted.”

  “Where are you staying?” Thoury asked.

  “At the New Hotel just off the port area,” Harcourt replied.

  “I'll send someone round later with your match tickets and passes as my guests. Book yourselves a taxi for 19.30 hrs. I'll meet you in the official entrance for pre-match drinks with Michel Dumas.”

  Massey was intrigued. “He's a friend of yours?”

  “He's well-known in Marseille,” Thoury replied. “Our paths have crossed on numerous occasions and we have what may be referred to as an arrangement.” He stood and shook their hands. “Until this evening, then.”

  As he walked back to his office, the two detectives looked at each other, their minds attempting to digest and unravel his comments. Was the captain's relationship with Dumas a cover for surveillance purposes or could it be founded on some local corruption set-up? Massey suspected that Dumas had bought the captain's complicity. He felt ill at ease, despite Thoury's cordial invitation. Harcourt's thoughts merely focussed on their handsome host, evoking other more basic human sentiments within her.

  8888

  Petra opened her eyes. A bespectacled man hovered above her. For a split second, the young, fresh-faced stranger confused her until she discerned the familiar features of Jean-Marie beyond him. As she rolled her head to one side, a sharp pain ripped into her neck and shoulders. She became aware of other people moving about her, some wearing navy blue uniforms, carrying holstered guns. They were gendarmes.

  “Comment allez-vous?” the young man asked. “Ca-va?”

  Jean-Marie pressed closer. “You feel okay now, Louise?”

  “What happened? Where's Alexis?” she asked.

  “This is Docteur Pineau who examine you.” Jean-Marie tried to explain. “Your ‘ead she is injured, but she is good. Per'aps you suffer only the ache. You go now in ambulance to C.H.U. It is the main ‘ospital in Limoges. There the doctors make more examination of you…tests to check you are okay.”

/>   “What happened to Alexis?” she asked again.

  The ex-gendarme looked puzzled. “You think Alexis is still ‘ere with you?”

  “I don't know. Roche attacked him. I tried to help, but I fell over, I think.”

  “You go now. We talk later,” said Jean-Marie before turning to a uniformed gendarme who stood at one side.

  They were in deep conversation as paramedics wheeled her out on a gurney to a waiting ambulance. Fifteen minutes later, they admitted her to the emergency unit of the Centre Hospitalier Universitaire, where she underwent a full medical examination. The consultant in charge decided to keep her in overnight for observation.

  They placed her in a single private ward. Still feeling anxious and responsible for the failure of her actions, she eased herself upright in bed. As she reflected on what had happened, she realised the real cause of the débâcle. She had lost control. In fact, she had never been in control. She had allowed Alexis to make the decisions. She had been unprepared for Roche's arrival and had misjudged his reactions despite having him at gunpoint. She had let down not only herself, but also the one person she was there to protect, Alexis.

  Beneath the dressing on her wound, her head throbbed, despite the painkillers that she had taken. Jean-Marie entered, accompanied by two detective officers from the police judiciaire. He asked her if she was in a fit state to recount her version of events at Ludovic Roche's house.

  Petra affirmed that she was happy to oblige. She spoke in English and he translated for the officers, one of whom took notes. It soon became apparent to her that Roche had disappeared with Alexis and her Sig Sauer handgun. She omitted to mention the missing weapon intentionally. Her excuse for being at the house was Alexis's quest to discover if Roche had been responsible for his father's death. He wanted to search for any evidence.

  “I not understand ‘ow Alexis know that Roche is in custody? You tell ‘im this?” Jean-Marie asked the question, prompted by one of the officers.