The Betrayal

by Kate Furnivall

  ‘Samir,’ she murmured. ‘Your mother will be all right now.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I sold my father’s watch. The gift is from him.’

  He put his hands together and salaamed. ‘To your father,’ he said. ‘He was not the one who told the lie.’

  Grief and guilt twisted into a tight knot inside her. ‘I’m sorry, Samir. I would change the lie if I could but it is too late. It would not bring either of our fathers back.’

  His dark eyes, full of sorrow, stared at her from under thick black lashes for so long, it was as though he had got lost inside his own head. She didn’t look away but her cheeks flamed scarlet.

  ‘Mademoiselle Duchamps, I was there that day. In your father’s garden. I was only five years old but I know the truth.’

  Samir took Romy to a tiny café that had a grimy courtyard at the back where round metal tables sprawled but where no one else ventured at this early hour. They shared the dusty space with two tethered goats and a three-legged hound. They drank Turkish coffee so thick you could stand a spoon in it. It swirled harsh and bitter in Romy’s gut until she added a slug of whisky and only then did her world stop spinning.

  ‘You were there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘At my father’s house?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She snatched at a thought. ‘I didn’t see you.’

  He could be lying. To threaten her.

  His long face showed a flicker of anger that she would doubt him. ‘But I saw you.’

  ‘What was I wearing?’

  ‘A lilac jumper. Your sister wore a blue cardigan.’

  She nodded, unable to speak. Something was unravelling inside her and she put her face in her hands.

  In a quiet but relentless voice, Samir continued to talk. ‘You didn’t see me because I was small and good at hiding. We lived in a shabby tenement, while you lived in a fairy palace. I used to beg Papa to take me with him when he went to garden for your father so that I could watch you all in your magical life. Exotic as zoo animals. As golden-haired as angels. You and your sister were the most beautiful creatures I’d ever seen. I used to dream about you. About speaking to you. In my own way, I loved you.’

  Romy raised her head. ‘Now you know better.’

  ‘Yes. Now I know better. Under your shiny skin you were evil.’

  Romy didn’t flinch, though it felt like a whiplash that cut to the bone.

  ‘I can’t bring back your father, Samir.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I am sorry. From the depths of my soul, I am sorry.’

  ‘My father was a good and honourable man. Your life in exchange for his was not worth it. I have followed you and seen how you live.’

  She expected him to lean across the grey metal surface of the table and strike her. She would not have blamed him. Instead his father’s gentle smile stole across his lips but he wiped it away with the back of his hand. This young boy was not born to hate.

  ‘Each month my mother and I waited for the day of your visit because it was the only day of the month that we ate well.’

  ‘So tell me, Samir.’ The clouds cast shadows across his face. ‘Tell me what you saw that day.’

  He picked up his coffee and drank it straight down. ‘I was helping my father. He liked me to work hard, so I was picking up the clippings from the hedge, but when your sister came out into the garden, I ran to hide.’

  She pictured him. Skinny brown legs flashing, his head full of dreams.

  Did Florence see him?

  ‘I ran round to the back of the house. That’s where I knew the garden shed was.’

  ‘My father’s study was at the back.’

  ‘Yes. I know.’

  ‘Did you look in?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She could stop there. She need go no further. She could stand up and walk away. There was still a chance to flee from the pain that was charging towards her.

  ‘What did you see?’

  The words hung over the grubby table. His expression of sorrow was too deep for a thirteen-year-old boy.

  ‘My father was not in that room.’

  Romy nodded. ‘Of course he wasn’t.’

  ‘Then why did you and your sister say you saw him go into the house?’

  ‘We lied.’

  His dark eyes burned with sudden anger and his hand curled into a fist. ‘You were in the room. You, Romaine Duchamps. Standing by the desk with a dagger in your hand.’

  A dagger?

  It was the paperknife. She could feel the weight of it in her hand, the coolness of the metal against her skin, the fear hot in her throat.

  Her father shouting, ‘Are you going to kill me, your own father?’

  Her angry retort, ‘Yes, Papa.’

  Her hands started to shake in her lap.

  ‘Who else was in the study?’

  ‘Your father.’

  ‘Just the two of us?’

  ‘No. There was someone else. A man.’

  ‘Describe him.’

  ‘Tall. Fair hair cut short. He was upset. I only saw him for a moment when I ran past.’

  ‘Old or young?’

  ‘Young. You know him.’

  Her mouth was dry as bone. ‘Who?’

  ‘I saw you with him in the street when I was following you. The man who was hit by the car.’

  ‘Horst Baumeister?’

  ‘Don’t, Mademoiselle Romaine.’

  She was shaking her head, whipping it back and forth over and over, her teeth clamped so tight on her lip that blood trickled down her chin. Horst had been there that day. Horst had been there and yet said nothing to her. No mention. No sign. She was hurting inside, like a knife in the gut, because he could have answered all her questions but now it was too late. Too late for him. Too late for her.

  She closed her eyes and a memory rushed in on her. She could see her father as clearly as if he were standing in front of her. Immaculate suit around which lingered the sweet fragrance of his favourite pipe tobacco, and a shirt so starched it looked as though it could stand up without him. A powerful man. A stern face with hard lines of discipline scored between his features, but prone to sudden unpredictable flashes of warmth. A smile, a laugh, when you least expected it. As a child she had lived for those moments. Grief writhed in her chest as she heard his voice again.

  Are you going to kill me?

  She prised open her eyes and focused on Samir sitting so gravely at the table. ‘Why didn’t you tell all this to the police?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘So why did they arrest your father?’

  Bitterness wound itself into his words. ‘They didn’t believe me. Why would they? I was a five-year-old Arab brat. A born liar, they said. They chose to take the word of two angel-faced white mademoiselles.’ His young mouth pulled into a kind of smile. ‘Who could blame them?’

  ‘You could.’

  ‘No. It was the voice of Roland Roussel backing up your story that settled their decision. I was cuffed and spat on as the son of a murderer.’

  Romy held out a hand to the boy with no father and a sick mother. She was overwhelmed with gratitude when he took it in his.

  The room was silent as the grave.

  Romy couldn’t stay away. She couldn’t, despite what Martel had said. She had to see with her own eyes that her room in Montmartre had been cleansed, that no limp body with blood matted to a black crisp in its blond hair still lay sprawled on the floor, awaiting her return. It could send her to the guillotine. Sometimes she wondered if that was what she’d wanted when she’d raised the empty whisky bottles.

  The room smelled of blood. Or was she imagining it? Of blood and rage. The cleaners had done a vicious job of work when they removed the body and had torn her room apart. The skirting boards hung loose from the walls, floorboards had been prised up and discarded, her bed stripped and her mattress sliced open so that its black horsehair filling had burst out and taken refuge in distant corners. T
he room had been systematically searched and her belongings bundled into a pile where usually the zinc bucket sat. She nudged it with her foot and an iron saucepan clattered to the floor, making her jump.

  There was nothing that held her there. Nothing she wanted. She retrieved only one item from the bundle that was her life. It was Chloé’s drawing of the Tiger Moth. She had talent that child. She had sat on the grass of the airfield and sketched the aircraft with a concentration beyond her years. She had caught its charm and the quirky profile of its pointed nose. Romy removed it from the pile.

  She was wondering how on earth the cleaners managed all this without alerting the concierge to the noise of their destructive search. Madame Gosselin would be up here like a shot. Unless she was paid to sit her broad backside in her chair downstairs with her knitting, while the shroud was bundled out the front door. Romy stood in silence, surveying the wreck of her life, when she heard a noise. Urgent footsteps on the stairs, a rapid heavy step. She snatched up the saucepan.

  The door flew open, kicked so hard it crashed into the wall and dislodged a chunk of plaster. A tall suited figure with dark hair charged into the quiet space, sending a grey mouse scuttling across the floor.

  ‘Romaine!’

  ‘Roland, hell you frightened me. What are you—?’

  Before she could finish he was across the room, his powerful hands seizing her shoulders and slamming her against the wall. Once. Twice. Three times, he bounced her against it. Her head cracked the crumbling plaster. She felt its dust trickle down the back of her neck and a light explode at the back of her eyes.

  ‘Rol—’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Where is who?’

  ‘My wife!’

  ‘Florence?’

  ‘Yes, damn you, your sister.’ His face filled her vision as he thrust it close to hers. ‘Where is she? What have your people done with her?’

  ‘My people? What are you talking about?’

  She was still pinned to the wall, his fingers digging into her flesh. She had fought men before, men who wanted something she was unwilling to give, and she knew where to jerk her knee. But Roland?

  ‘Let go of me, Roland,’ she hissed into his face.

  ‘Where is—?’

  ‘Let go of me.’

  Something was in her voice, something he recognised as a warning. Abruptly he released his grip on her but did not back away.

  ‘What happened, Roland?’

  ‘There was a telephone call last night. From a woman in tears. She asked to speak to Florence. The woman claimed she knew Horst and had information about something he was involved with that she would only give to Florence. Face to face.’

  ‘Why not on the telephone?’

  ‘She didn’t trust it.’

  ‘You let her go? On her own?’

  His eyes narrowed with dislike. ‘Don’t try to put this on me. Florence is her own woman and you know it, she goes her own way.’

  No, Romy didn’t know it. Not with Roland. She’d always assumed her sister did what her husband said. He was that kind of man.

  ‘You tell your people to release my wife unharmed or I will come after them and kill them. Do you understand?’

  She blinked.

  ‘Tell them, Romaine. Make them listen to you. I want her back and I’ll tear Paris apart to find her if I have to. Got that message?’

  Romy nodded. ‘Where did she go?’ she demanded. ‘To meet this woman.’

  ‘Place Pigalle. That’s where I found her car. She didn’t come home last night.’

  ‘Police?’

  ‘I’ve informed them. But Place Pigalle is your stamping ground, Romaine, isn’t it? Her car was abandoned there. Tell your friends to let her go.’ He gripped her arm painfully tight.

  ‘If she is being treated the way you are treating me . . .’ She let the words hang in the air.

  His eyes widened and he released his hold on her as if she’d burned him. They stood in the shambles of the room, dust motes dancing between them.

  ‘I’m sorry, Romaine. I . . .’ he swallowed awkwardly. ‘I apologise. I’ve been out of my mind since she’s been gone.’

  For the first time, Romy looked at him properly. His eyes were bloodshot, his chin unshaven, his dark hair a mess. There were lines around his eyes she had never seen before.

  ‘Why would anyone take Florence?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s obvious. To control me, to dictate my actions.’

  She nodded. It made sense. ‘But who?’

  ‘Don’t be dense, Romaine, Your left-wing comrades of course.’

  ‘They would never do such a thing.’

  ‘You are a fool if you believe that. Go ask your aeroplane friend. Ask Léo Martel where he hides defenceless women.’

  Léo wouldn’t touch Florence, she wanted to shout. He wouldn’t. But she didn’t say anything. Except in her head. To Florence. I swear I will find you.

  Instead she rushed out of the room and took the stairs at a run.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  ‘Léo, I have to see you.’

  ‘I can’t now, Romy, I am dealing with the new arrivals.’

  She could hear noise in the background, voices demanding his time and a big gutsy de Havilland engine roar that made her hand tighten on the telephone. She was losing him. She pictured the concentration on his face.

  ‘Léo. Five minutes. That’s all. It’s important.’

  That got his attention. She let herself imagine a smile on his face at the prospect of seeing her. Or was he frowning, pulling those thick eyebrows of his tight together?

  ‘At Martine’s café,’ he said briskly.

  ‘Thank you, Léo.’

  A pause. ‘You all right?’

  ‘No.’

  A faint hiss came down the line. ‘I’m on my way.’

  She wanted to say I love you, but he hung up. She listened for a long moment for a click on the line but none came. She didn’t know whether that was good or bad.

  Romy took the Métro and found herself a pavement table in Martine’s café. It was tucked away in the industrial Épinettes district and offered privacy. A watery sun was elbowing the clouds aside and Romy soaked up its warmth, but it made no kind of dent in the chill inside her. She ordered coffee. Images of Florence crowded her brain, tumbling over each other. Of her sister laid out on cold earth. Or alone and disorientated. Hands tied. In a dark basement somewhere. Blue eyes huge with fear.

  ‘I’m coming,’ she whispered.

  A hand touched the back of her neck. She spun round and found Léo Martel standing tall and shadowy against the sky with a look of concern on his face. He’d sprung from nowhere. He was wearing a black shirt open at the neck, no jacket despite the cool breeze, and there was a quickness to his movements as he sat down that was unlike him. Something was not right.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘What has happened?’ His eyes searched hers and whatever it was he saw in them, he didn’t like it, because he squeezed her hand tightly, his thumb pressed to the beat of the pulse in her wrist. ‘Tell me, Romy. What? What has put you in this state?’

  She was quiet. No obvious agitation and no tears or sobs. How did he see inside her so clearly?

  ‘It’s Florence.’

  He raised a dark eyebrow.

  ‘My twin sister. She’s been taken.’

  ‘Taken? By whom?’

  ‘I have no idea. My brother-in-law believes it’s you.’

  He became as still as stone. Around them people greeted each other across the café, a boy with a threadbare mongrel coaxed it to perform tricks for coins, cars rattled past, everyone on the move. Except Léo Martel. His stillness was like the eye of a hurricane.

  ‘Is that what you believe too, Romy?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  As she said the word, she realised it wasn’t just a word, it was the truth. She didn’t believe Léo would do such a thing. But Noam? That was
a different matter. Léo must have heard the truth in her single word because he gently lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles one by one.

  ‘Such a small hand,’ he murmured, ‘to pack such a punch.’

  She was not sure what he was referring to – the wine-bottle attack or the assault on her father? Her other hand touched his cheek.

  ‘What is it, Léo?’

  ‘I went to Diane’s millinery shop this morning. She had some information for me. She was sitting behind the counter when I arrived, a bullet hole drilled into her forehead.’

  Her hand closed over his mouth. ‘Cupid,’ she whispered. They sat in a silence of sorrow.

  ‘I need to speak with Noam,’ Romy said.

  The factory was loud and dirty and stank of pig fat. It was a meat-processing plant and the years of grease had seeped into the bricks of the building, turning them black and slippery. Martel led Romy straight to the large delivery doors, through which the carcasses were wheeled each morning, and then down a passageway past giant chambers where the clank of machinery and the thwack of cleaver through bone echoed in her ears.

  She followed him as he pushed open heavy double doors into a room where the cold struck her bones like a blow and their breath coiled like serpents from their mouths. In front of them, obscenely pink carcasses of pigs hung from hooks, gutted and cleaned, row after row of them, stiff and upright like an army of the dead. But it was not these that held Romy’s attention, it was the man at the far end. Noam.

  She made herself walk. Not run. Not throw herself at him and shake the life out of him until he told her where he had hidden her sister.

  ‘Noam,’ Martel said, ‘a few minutes of your time, please.’ It was a statement, not a question.

  ‘What the hell is she doing here?’ Noam indicated Romy with a flick of his head. He was wiping his hands on the long canvas apron that encased him from chin to shin. It must once have been white but now bore the lifeblood of countless slaughtered animals. ‘And what brings you here, Martel? Is there news of—?’