by A B Morgan
There was no need to fathom out why Abigail Nithercott was so poor at social interactions. Zoe had a working hypothesis to explain everything. While washing her hands in the cavernous ladies’ toilets she decided that Abi slotted neatly into the autistic spectrum of disorders.
She shared her thoughts with Kat in a whispered conversation.
‘Why do you think that?’
‘Because she’s so wooden. She hated shaking hands, she barely makes eye contact, she has no discernible sense of humour and she shies away from other people. It explains an awful lot, including her attention to detail and her need to keep to a timetable.’
Kat considered Zoe’s words and nodded. ‘I suppose it does make sense. Not that I know anything about autism.’
‘My brother has Asperger’s. He’s very much the same; incredibly intelligent, but not in the slightest bit affectionate, socially awkward to the point of anxiety. Must have routine.’ She nodded, satisfied with the justification of her diagnosis. Kat was nonplussed, so Zoe changed the emphasis of her next question. ‘The posters in the toilets, did you design them?’
Kat preened. ‘I was part of the team involved. Yes. Why do you ask?’
‘The woman in the mac isn’t Abi Nithercott. The woman in the photo’s in the mayor’s office wasn’t her either.’
‘No. She’s a model we brought in. Guy didn’t even bother asking Abi to take part. She hates any sort of public appearance. She was supposed to be at a charity auction at their house the other week, but I didn’t see her all evening, she most definitely won’t have her photograph taken, not for any reason. Only the official photographer was allowed to take any pictures of Guy and his guests so there’s not even a chance of a sneaky peek of him in his natural habitat. Everything is contrived and deliberate to make sure his private life stays that way.’
‘I know. I tried looking them up on Google before we came here. Nothing about Abi other than an article or two from years ago and a couple of others speculating about her state of mind. There were no photos to speak of, just a shot of her taken with a long lens at a retreat somewhere in North Devon. She still looks good though.’
‘Not that good,’ Kat said glancing at her own reflection in the glass of the café windows. ‘Besides she’s completely screwy.’
‘You should keep your voice down, Kat. Pierre has ears and you know what they said in the war… Careless talk costs lives’.
CHAPTER FORTY
Timing is everything
Abi swore. She realised her mistake too late. She shouldn’t have used Kat’s phone to send a text to Logan and she blamed Kat for interrupting her, for distracting her, for being in her way. She blamed Kat for breathing.
‘Where did I put Guy’s phone?’
She pulled open a desk drawer and rested easier at the sight of a neat iPhone in a distinctive black case, the initials GDN embossed on the front in neat italics. ‘The game’s afoot, as Sherlock would say.’ She fired up the phone and scrolled to the message icon. Sure enough, there was one from an unidentified number asking Guy where and what time they were meeting after the race and it was devious of him to include a message for her. Brave, loving and considerate.
❖
‘… and it will be great to meet Abi in person properly at last. Please thank her for the tickets and passes. This is my new personal number by the way. Logan.’
❖
A message and assurance that she could contact him anytime.
‘I already have your new number, Logan, my love. But thanks anyway.’ Reaching across the desktop she touched a silver photo frame. There was a recent photograph of her, a selfie. In the background waving as he stepped from his car, was Logan, in a business suit. It looked as if he were greeting her, from a distance, with a wide beaming smile.
‘No more snatched moments pretending not to know who I am. No more make-believe, Logan. Not from either of us.’
The dial on her 1940’s watch was dainty. Not at all practical for helping her to keep to the timetable she had set. It would be hours until Peters returned driving the Bentley with Logan in the back, so in the meantime she would keep busy.
She told her guests that a cold buffet was arranged, but she’d lied about that, and in any case food would be the last of their concerns. Abigail raised an eyebrow, predicting that neither Kat nor Zoe would have much of an appetite by the time they’d exhausted themselves figuring out where the key to their freedom was hidden.
There was to be a distinct lack of freedom for them both.
This thought pleased Abigail immensely as she delighted in seeing the ladies make their way to the door marked “Gendarmerie”. Kat had left the secret plans in their folder, lying on the table outside the Café de La Republique and Abigail watched as Zoe chastised her for being so careless.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
A stab in the dark
Are we supposed to carry the crappy folder around for the next hour then?’
‘Well we can’t leave it for any passing member of the SS to find, now can we?’ Zoe rolled up the thin buff folder and wedged it into the rear pocket of her jeans. ‘Please tell me you still have the torch.’
They approached the touch pad and Kat tapped the screen, which lit up as before, to give instructions in writing and in Pierre’s voice. ‘Once you enter the Gendarmerie you will need to find your way into the prison cell. There are several tasks to be completed to help you in this endeavour. Here is a clue to get you started. “There’s an air raid. Turn out the light”. You have one hour. Good luck.’
The room they entered was dimly lit, claustrophobic. Sounds of a distant air raid siren, booms from explosives and the much closer rat-tat-tat of gunfire, all added to the tense atmosphere. A scene designed to look like a bombed-out street had been created. Rubble and splintered timbers littered each side of a wide pathway leading to a dead end. They were surrounded by partially collapsed brickwork, broken window frames, bullet-riddled plaster and with no discernible door onwards, Zoe stood waiting for something to catch her eye. She could almost smell the dust and wretchedness about her.
‘Someone has it in for Guy,’ Kat remarked, staring at a ripped poster. ‘I don’t remember the finished product looking that bad.’
‘I told you. That’s how the posters looked in the toilets.’
Zoe waited for the barbed response, but Kat was too fascinated by the neatness with which Guy’s face had been erased from the reproduction 1940’s wanted poster. The defaced poster was illuminated by a streetlight standing tall next to it and it didn’t take Kat long to find a switch.
‘Now what do we do?’ she asked.
‘Be brave and switch the light off, like the clue said, I—’
As Zoe stepped forward the lights went out leaving them in grey-black stillness, lit only intermittently by flashes from far off ack-ack guns.
‘Kat?’ They reached out and found each other.
‘The torch?’ Zoe could feel Kat fumbling into her pocket. Then the blue beam appeared, and the floor seemed to light up. Below them, luminous footprints glowed. The instructions were clear. Walk towards the wall. As they did, the optical illusion became apparent. What appeared to be a solid wall was in fact one wall several feet behind another.
In the gloom they linked arms and followed the footprints until they reached another door, its handle shimmered brightly in the torchlight and above it a dim sign. “Gendarmerie”. They tensed for what was beyond.
Light emanated from the gaps in the oak door as it opened into a cramped office, filled to overflowing with mahogany furniture, a typewriter, desk lamp, cloaks and peaked pillbox caps on pegs, truncheons hanging below them. And keys – bunches of keys – three bunches of keys on great hoops.
‘This is a dingy little place,’ Zoe remarked.
On the far side was a prison cell, stark and uninviting. Through the iron bars of the cell door she could see a wooden pallet bed topped with a grey wool blanket, an enamel bucket beneath it. Above the bed a wooden
plaque on the wall read, “The key is in the plan”.
‘Brilliant. What does that mean?’
Zoe was still scanning her surroundings. ‘What’ve we got? A bicycle, a rack of old pipes, filing cabinets everywhere, yet another map of Le Mans on the wall, and a darned great cast iron stove in the middle of the room, for God’s sake. Where do we start?’
‘Why ask me?’
Why indeed, thought Zoe.
‘Let’s take a look at the typewriter,’ she offered. She‘d run out of steam for arguing every point. Before they reached the table to examine what the typewriter may have in the way of clues, a muffled moan was heard from inside the prison cell.
‘Very realistic. They could at least put a dummy villain in there to add a bit more authenticity. I’ll put that in my review,’ Kat said. ‘I take it we find the key to unlock the cell.’
Zoe wasn’t so sure. There were too many keys to choose from. A piece of paper was already in place on the roller of the typewriter, several words typed in a list. ‘I don’t get it.’ She looked again. The keyboard was wrong. The letters and numbers were jumbled up. She tried typing in the first word on the list with Kat standing at her shoulder. ‘KITE’
The keys moved the metal arms of the antiquated machine towards the paper on the roller and left a four-letter code. ‘TG63.’ Zoe glanced up at Kat’s bemused face. ‘Any thoughts? Any at all?’
‘Keep going.’
Zoe finished the decoding as fast as she could manage and hitting the last key she shrugged. ‘I’m too hungry to think.’
‘It’s not a grid reference is it?’
Zoe was shocked. Kat had actually said something helpful. ‘Map. The bloody map of bloody Le Mans,’ Zoe said and threw her chin upwards. ‘We should’ve thought of that.’
‘Grid references, how simple.’
The map revealed the next clue and soon the pair of them were racing towards the cast iron pot-bellied stove in the middle of the office. Kat reached out, checking first that it wasn’t going to burn her. This action amused Zoe. It was June. Summertime. Why would a stove be alight? It would burn the future customers for one thing and create a wealth of health and safety issues.
Kat was back in competitive mode. She opened the door at the front of the stove by lifting the latch. Kneeling down, she peered inside. ‘A radio set.’ Gleefully she pulled free a pair of small headphones attached by a twisted brown wire, flicked a switch on the set inside, and listened intently. ‘There’s a message on repeat.’
‘Well?’
‘“Only one of you can enter the prison cell to shine light on the final clue”. Wait there’s more…’
Kat was heading to the cell door before Zoe had chance to tell her that it was a pointless waste of energy without having the required key. Before she could say anything, Kat grabbed hold of an upright cast iron bar and pulled. The door swung easily, and she laughed in surprise. ‘It was open all the time! How funny.’ She stepped into the cell as the door closed behind her and clanged shut.
The lights went out again.
Darkness.
Her eyes struggled to adjust to the murky shadows, and Zoe heard groaning again, coming from beneath her feet.
‘Shit,’ Kat said, using her favoured expletive. She too had heard the pitiful noise.
‘Torch, Kat.’ Zoe stayed still, not wanting to trip over furniture. Waiting for the luminescent clue. When she turned on the torch, the blue light illuminated a whole wall full of graffiti-style writing above the prisoner’s wooden bed.
‘What the absolute fuck is this?’ Kat’s words came out slowly, with emphasis on each one.
Zoe, standing near the cold iron stove, read the words and sank to her knees, feeling for the solid metal; something to ground her. ‘That is sick,’ she said, barely comprehending the meaning behind the phrases and yet knowing, beyond doubt, that she and Kat had walked into danger.
Kat sounded scared. She flashed the torch around. ‘I’m coming back out. We should leave. Now.’ Zoe was about to reply when the door to the cell rattled and Kat let out a cry of despair. ‘Oh no. It’s locked.’
‘Push don’t pull. Calm down.’
‘I am pushing… please let me out.’ She shouted, ‘Abi, please let me out!’
The torch fell from Kat’s hand and Zoe gasped as she heard a whimper, a crashing sound, and a colossal thump on the wooden floor. Had Kat fainted?
She waited, trying to detect any small sound, peering through the gloom. A dragging noise could be heard, then another muffled groan like before, remote and indeterminate. Glimpses of a pale-yellow light through cracks in the floorboards caught Zoe’s attention – it hadn’t been there seconds earlier. She tried to find a way of angling her head to see the source of this glow and the thudding noises welling upwards filling her with dread.
‘Kat? Kat? Don’t panic I think I can reach the torch from this side. Stay still.’ Zoe crawled towards the fan of blue light spilling across the floor. Through the bars of the cell door, her fingertips touched the torch and she rolled it gingerly towards her. Clasping it to her chest, sitting on her haunches she aimed it back into the cell.
There was no one to be seen.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Let’s pretend to be French
Gianni handed the plastic beer glass to Logan and they both studied the froth on top with trepidation.
‘Just one before lunch.’
‘Yeah. Just one. Soothe the old dry throat.’ Gianni sipped his cold lager in a synchronised movement with that of his friend. ‘Better?’
Logan sighed. ‘Not really.’
They meandered along with swarms of hot sweaty bodies, pausing only to appreciate the efforts made by some of the supporters from the red camping site at Tertre Rouge. Hours must’ve been spent drinking and then building pyramids of beer cans. The smell of barbecued food wafted in the air, mixing with alcohol fumes and the sounds of the French commentary coming from the speakers dotted trackside. Spectators outside the red campsite were vying for prime positions on the sandy grass banks, some finding a spot in the shade of the trees near La Chapelle, others elbowing their way to lean over concrete walls.
‘Your new mate, the fabulously wealthy if slightly creepy Guy Nithercott, what does he want from you?’
‘What do you mean?’ Logan gave Gianni a sideways look, having to aim his head at a downward angle because of the height difference. ‘I’m a well-known rugby player. He’s a—’
‘Exactly. You are a minor celebrity who hasn’t had the call up to appear on such classic TV shows as “Strictly Come Dancing in your Pants with the Stars” or “Eat Shit in the Jungle with lesser-known Celebrities” yet. He, on the other hand, is the overlord of all sporting and theatrical investments. One of those rich-to-richer evil trolls who are rolling in it. Why pick on you?’
He continued, not allowing Logan to interrupt. ‘I love you dearly, but let’s face it, you’re not a brilliant public speaker, which is unfortunate because you have a face for radio. Match commentary – fair enough, you’re good at that – but…’ Gianni stopped and confronted his friend. He reached up with one hand and took Logan’s chin between thumb and forefinger. ‘Some women like the “trampled on by a herd of elephants” rugged look, but, being brutally honest, if I were Robinson Crusoe and you turned out to be Man Friday then I’d give the goat more consideration.’
Logan gave a heartfelt sigh. ‘I love you too. Kick a man when he’s down, why don’t you?’
Gianni halted and waved his half-consumed beer around for emphasis as he spoke. ‘No. Seriously now. Guy doesn’t need you; he can have any one of the handsome sporting celebrities at his charity auctions or opening the latest of his empire’s acquisitions. Instead, he lavishes tickets to Le Mans on you for your birthday – even though he hardly knows you. He expresses concern about you being hounded by some mad stalker, when in fact he probably couldn’t give a witch’s left tit. So … what does he really want?’
Logan pondered these qu
estions as the two made their way to the entrance for the grandstand at Tertre Rouge. It hadn’t gone unnoticed that Kat had spent a lot of time at the headquarters of Global Entertainments in the previous six months. He always believed that in that time she’d wangled him a couple of paid appearances, an advert for Glamping Global, and the more recent charity events. He thought this through. Perhaps it hadn’t been a natural progression from the sport, to commentator, to celebrity stardom. Maybe Kat was flinging herself at Guy Nithercott.
He tried to imagine the scene. A lavish office, a large desk, Kat thrusting her ample bosom at Guy…
Then why is Guy treating me like a prince? Guilt?
Logan and Gianni made their way up to the seats in the grandstand. These were not luxurious. Rows of plastic seats with barely enough room for Logan to fit his legs behind the seat in front, but as they were on the back row, he didn’t have to face the usual complaints about blocking someone’s view, which happened pretty much every time he went to the cinema or the theatre.
They settled themselves into the seats as best they could, and Gianni rooted around in his daysack, eventually producing two small earpiece radios. Radio Le Mans was in English and gave regular updates from the pits, let the English-speaking spectators know what was going on.
Above the babble of chatter from their fellow spectators, mostly in French, Logan became aware of a group to his right, two rows down, whose voices immediately grated. He wished he’d decided against wearing a Hawaiian shirt. It was a bad idea in these circumstances. He leaned his shoulder into Gianni. ‘Yanks. Loud ones.’
‘Don’t let them hear us talking. Pretend to be French.’
‘What dressed like this? Are you mad? We look like we’ve come from the set of Blue Hawaii with Elvis sodding Presley.’
Gianni, smirked, curled a lip and said in his best Elvis voice, ‘Uh-huh-huh’
