Hostage? Christ, what was he thinking about? He needed to go to the police. Now. He scanned the street for a gendarme. Why hadn’t he gone to them before? No matter what happened to him, they could sort this out. They would have the resources. They probably had cameras everywhere, like London. They could trace Brunwald and mount a raid, or surround his hideout and demand Sidney’s release. As much as the bastard had shown no remorse for killing, he wasn’t stupid. He’d let her go if he thought he might get away with it.
A police car turned onto the street ahead of him. He raised his hand. They would be able to save her. They would be able to capture Brunwald and bring him to justice. The police car showed no signs of slowing. Piers stepped out into the road and waved. Brunwald and his men had killed the mobster and his men, along with Auguste. The police couldn’t help but see that. Piers would have to convince them, but it’d be worth it. Sidney only had until tomorrow. Midday tomorrow. He couldn’t risk her life. It was the sensible thing to do.
But tomorrow? He brought his arm down a fraction. What if he couldn’t convince them? By midday? What if they pinned the murders on him? Shit. He whipped his arm down, and stepped back onto the sidewalk.
Murder! How could he convince anyone that he wasn’t responsible? They had pictures of him on a motorbike running from the scene of Auguste’s murder. Christ, what if they had footage of him walking into the alley with Morel and then walking out without him? He sank to his knees and lowered his head into his hands. The police car didn’t stop.
Bloody hell. He was a software engineer, not a criminal mastermind. How was he supposed to solve this? If he went to the police he’d be done for. And if he didn’t convince them to look for Sidney, she’d be dead by midday tomorrow. But if he didn’t go to the police how was he supposed to find her, or the money?
And what if Morel was trying to con Brunwald out of the painting? Maybe the whole affair with Auguste had been a ploy to steal the painting from Brunwald all along? Maybe the money never existed? Maybe, maybe, maybe. He ducked into the covered entranceway of a department store. Christ, he was out of his depth.
He rotated his head and shoulders and stretched out his back. He had no clues and the light was fading fast. Not that he knew what he was going to do anyway. He stepped out from under the shelter of the building. The fine rain, which had felt refreshing before, now just felt miserable.
Across the street, a light flickered into life: a sign, big and bold. He felt as if a blanket of cold engulfed him, sweeping the air from his body. The single word Bernard’s glowed in purple neon script above a white canopy. It was Sidney’s nightclub, the place she had wanted to hide for the night. The place she had wanted to take him. The girl who just wanted to have fun. The girl he had turned down. Damn, damn, damn, why hadn’t he said yes? Why hadn’t they gone there? Why hadn’t he asked her to dance? She even said she wouldn’t leave him.
He sighed. It was too late now. No amount of begging in the world would bring her here now. He felt for the tickets Sidney had given him. They were stiff card, laminated, with Bernard’s embossed in the same color and swoopy font as the glowing neon across the street. On the back someone had written “free admittance” with a stylized “B” underneath. The man himself, presumably.
A line had already formed beneath the neon, early for a nightclub. Two bouncers stood in front of a white door. A rope had been placed along the sidewalk and patrons were rapidly assembling. A Bentley pulled up alongside the canopy. One of the bouncers rushed forward with an umbrella and sheltered a well-dressed couple that emerged from the rear. Flashes went off as the couple dived for sanctuary behind the white door.
Piers turned the tickets over in his hands. Sanctuary? He needed sanctuary. He needed time. He needed to sit and think. Perhaps Sidney had been onto something. He squeezed the tickets. At least no one would recognized him in the dark of a nightclub.
He flipped up his collar and strode across the road for the canopy and its white door, ignoring the queue of people, confident in his ticket. Bernard’s name would surely grant him instant access and, if it didn’t, they’d just send him to the back of the line. No big deal. No problem. Nothing to worry about.
At least, that was what he thought until he saw the bouncers talking to a gendarme.
Chapter 23
Piers sweated. Surely the police wouldn’t be checking nightclubs in their search for him and Sidney? There again, Sidney had said she knew the owner, so perhaps they were checking places she was known.
The gendarme stared at Piers as he approached. He couldn’t turn around now. His shirt clung to him; it was make or break time. Should he walk away? Rush off as if he’d just remembered something? Or could a run-in with the law really be the best twist of fate?
The bouncers waved people through the entrance in small groups. He slowed his pace and joined the rear of a gaggle of noisy girls.
One of the bouncers held out his arm, deftly cutting off Piers from the girls. “Monsieur?”
Piers held up his ticket. The man glowered at it. Behind him the gendarme went quiet.
The bouncer didn’t blink. “You have a ticket.”
Piers shook the ticket.
The bouncer frowned. “Oui, monsieur. And this ticket was given to you by?”
Piers’ heart pounded his rib cage. “Bernard.”
The man nodded. “Ah, Bernard.”
Piers smiled big. “Oui, Bernard.”
The bouncer plucked the ticket from Piers hand. “Bernard doesn’t give tickets to single men, Monsieur.”
Piers licked his lips. “He … he didn’t. He gave these tickets to my girlfriend and me.”
“Ahhhh, and your girlfriend is?”
Damn. Dare he mention Sidney’s name? What if the gendarme had just alerted the bouncers to her name? He swallowed. “Busy.”
The doorman’s shoulders sagged and he gave an exasperated sigh. “Her name, monsieur.”
“Oh,” Piers tipped his head forward and spoke in a whisper. “Sidney.”
The doorman’s face coiled into a left-handed sneer. “You? You are Sidney’s boyfriend?”
The gendarme took a step to one side, to gain a better view. Piers felt sweat trickle down his back. Was this it? Was this where he was going to be arrested? Sneaking into a Paris nightclub? He focused on the bouncer. He had to think French. “This week, yes. But next week?” He shrugged. “Who can tell?”
The man snorted a laugh. “So, when does she get here?”
Piers waved his hands in the air. “Thirty minutes? An hour? Who knows?”
The man slapped the ticket back into Piers’ hand. “Go on.”
Piers took the ticket and opened the door, but the second bouncer called, “Wait.”
Piers’ heart skipped a beat. His skin prickled. He turned slowly around. The man was pointing his finger at his watch. “This week is almost over.”
Piers face felt numb. “And?”
“So, your week is almost up. You make the most of tonight, yes?” He had a lascivious grin and gave a theatrical wink. “It may be your last.”
The gendarme erupted into laughter. Piers’ heart resumed beating and the numbness in his face melted into a broad grin. “Oui, oui, tonight.” He let the door slip from his fingers and disappeared into the club, wiping sweat from his brow.
A flight of stairs descended onto a gantry above a giant underground dance floor. In opposite corners, bars were doing a brisk trade, but the floor was mostly empty. A DJ was raised above the floor on a platform. Lasers, lights, and LEDs pulsed around the room. Lines and shapes spun over the ceiling and floor. Samples of Duran Duran mixed with heavy dance music pounded from speakers hung from the ceiling. Along one side he saw booths set into the wall like Stone Age caves. He got a beer from the bar and headed for one, sliding into the back to watch the entrance and the dance floor.
He cradled his beer. What would it have been like if they had come here? Would she have talked all night? Danced like crazy? Both, probably.
Only now he’d never know. He breathed in deeply and straightened himself up. At least, he’d never know if he failed her.
A man in a cream suit walked across the floor toward him. He waved at some of the dancers as he crossed the open space, then seated himself directly opposite Piers. “I hear you’re waiting for Sidney.”
Piers’ eyes narrowed. “You know her?”
The man leaned across the small table. “I gave her those tickets.”
“You’re Bernard?”
“You’re English and, pardon me for saying this, an unlikely person to be in possession of those tickets. You don’t seem like Sidney’s type.”
“And what type do you think she goes for?”
Bernard shrugged. “Not, monsieur, a man who sips beer on his own in a corner.”
“I’m not having a good day.”
Bernard leaned forward. “Let me give you some advice about Sidney. She’s a true Parisienne. The type of person she would go for doesn’t sulk about not having a good day. He grabs it by the throat and changes the day.”
Piers raised his gaze and started at Bernard. “She’s not French. She’s Elbistonian.”
Bernard raised his head up. “Ahhhh, so you do know her. This is true.” He thumped his chest. “But inside.”
“Maybe.”
“Definitely.” Bernard stood up. “Don’t forget, monsieur, you have the clothes to impress, but if you want to win Sidney, you will change the day.”
Piers watched him walk away, talking to patrons, passing from group to group, waving at a couple on the dance floor. He was calm, confident, assured—everything Piers didn’t feel about himself.
He toyed with his beer. Should he search Auguste’s apartment again? Find April? Neither of those would be easy. Certainly not before midday tomorrow.
He stretched. What else could he do? Contact Little and Large? Where had they gone? They’d tipped him off about Morel bringing other men, but what could he get out of them?
The only thing left was Auguste’s car. He took a mouthful of beer. He didn’t relish the idea of returning to a murder scene, or the place where he’d last seen Sidney, but Bernard was right.
If he wanted to win Sidney, he had to change the day.
Chapter 24
Outside Bernard’s, the gendarme had moved on. Piers walked along the line of well-dressed patrons. They eyed him curiously, maybe unsure why someone would leave the club so early, or maybe wondering he if resembled the man on the motorbike.
Streetlights glowed through the misty drizzle and the night air felt good on his face. Neons lit up hotel signs, and light from shop windows spilled onto the road. He blew out a long breath. If the painting had been the answer to their problems, it would have been a wonderful night to be in Sidney’s company. Even when she’d made his blood boil, she’d lit up his world.
He arrived at the entrance to the dead end. The street looked dark, the city economizing on street lamps. He bought a large aluminum flashlight from a pharmacy on the corner and headed into the street’s gloom. He walked in the center of the road, keeping away from the doorways, and stretching his shoulders and flexing his fingers. He kept the flashlight off, gripping it with his right hand and slapping it satisfyingly into his left. It had a good heft and he found the idea of fighting a mugger strangely appealing.
But he didn’t need to work out his aggression; he needed get Sidney back, and to get Sidney back he needed to find the money. He slapped the flashlight into his palm. Yes, he had to get her back. The dictator had men and guns but he didn’t have the money. That was all he wanted, and that was the only thing that would save her.
Piers’ mouth went dry as he approached the giant dumpster. Brunwald had thrown Morel and his men in them, and they were undoubtedly dead, but he still had misgivings. He gave the yellow monster a wide berth.
Auguste’s car looked unloved. The seats had been wrenched free of their moorings and the carpets were stuffed into the driver’s seat. The dashboard had been pulled forward and the carpet in the rear hatchback was missing, exposing the spare tire and tire lever. Worst of all, dark patches on the roof testified to Morel’s violent end.
Piers flipped on the flashlight. Bullet holes glinted around the rear of the car. Auguste had been shot at while he was escaping from Gare de l’Est. The shots had been aimed low, and none of the glass in the car was broken. It seemed absurd, but perhaps the dictator’s men were trying to keep a low profile. Blowing the glass out in the car certainly would have brought plenty of attention in the street.
The door opened with a jolt and a clang. A large chunk of dashboard dropped to the ground. He stuffed it back into the car and sat on the dislodged driver’s seat. His flashlight caught two bullet holes in the dashboard.
He placed his hands on the steering wheel and twisted to stare out of the rear window. Auguste had been running from the fight at Gare de l’Est, probably driving like a madman while being shot. He’d been heading to Montparnasse station. He’d probably planned to take the direct route, then been forced into weaving though streets to throw off his attackers. He’d lived in Paris, so he’d have known the route better than Brunwald’s men.
Piers looked out of the driver’s side window and down the street. So, why turn into a dead end? He stepped out of the car. The gunmen would have been on his tail, yet he purposely trapped himself. If Auguste knew the roads in the area, surely he could have shook them off in other streets without turning into a dead end?
Piers walked the last thirty feet down the street. A tall, white, wooden barrier blocked his way. It was secured to the walls of the buildings on either side, leaving no way to pass. He shone his flashlight over the temporary wall. A large sign apologized for the disruption in several languages. A single name was written underneath. He didn’t have to sweep the light across the length of the name to know what it said. It was expected and unexpected. In large, neat, Courier script, the words “Waterloo Large Construction” blazed into the night.
He pulled up a map of the area on his phone. The road zigzagged to another that led across the Seine and onto Montparnasse. Beyond the white barrier lay the building project his company had been contracted to construct.
Piers stuffed his phone back into his pocket. No wonder Auguste had spat at him when he saw the Waterloo emblem on his shirt. Auguste had turned down this street believing he could shake off his pursuers, but Waterloo had blocked off the street the day before. They’d put up the white barriers, moved in the cranes, and sent Piers to fix the software. There was no way Auguste could have known Waterloo would foil his escape.
Piers looked back at the car. It was pointing toward the white barrier. Auguste had dumped the car when he saw the barrier and continued on foot. But where? Back past the pharmacy? That would have meant passing the gunmen chasing him. He swung the flashlight over the walls lining the sides of the street. There were no alleyways to access other streets. Piers bit his lip. What would he do if people were shooting at him? The answer was simple: run. And he only had one choice.
Piers swung his light over the tall white barricade. The warning sign was attached with large wooden blocks that might give purchase. He pulled himself up, wary of a steep drop on the other side.
Balanced on the top of the wall he saw that the site was deserted. Serious construction hadn’t started yet. The cranes stood silent in opposite corners, a Portakabin between them. The surface layer of the area had already been removed, leaving mud everywhere.
Directly below him, the ground sloped down to a large pit that took up half the site: excavation for the foundation of the building Waterloo was to construct. The rain had turned the pit into a lake filed with thick brown water. He focused the beam from the flashlight directly below him and saw the smooth surface of the muddy slope was pockmarked in a line that descended into the water. Auguste’s path, perhaps? He examined the far side of the lake and saw similar marks leading down into the water. Or, more likely, one set of marks led in, and the other led out, be
cause if Auguste had jumped this wall while running from his attackers, he’d have fallen straight into the lake.
Piers inched his way along the top of the wall, away from the pit, lowered himself down, and jumped the last five feet. His shoes were sucked into the thick mud. He levered them out and fought his way to the other side of the lake.
Along the side of the lake he found a broad net, secured at the top of the slope with large stakes and running down into the water. Waterloo’s idea of safety in case anyone fell in, and cheaper than a night watchman.
On the far side of the lake, footprints were clearly dug into the sloping side of the pit and continued to a metal ladder running up the side of the Portakabin. The building was locked and empty, yet to be filled with the mass of paperwork that followed a construction project. He climbed the ladder onto the roof.
The Portakabin was only a foot from another white temporary wall at the opposite side of the site. Piers ran his flashlight across it and a large stain, dark red and thigh-high, confirmed the route Auguste had taken.
Piers looked over the wall and its dark stain to a cobblestone alleyway below. An old couple hurried by. He checked the map on his phone. The alley led to the square in front of Notre Dame, the place where they had all met in that fateful taxi.
So, where had the money gone? If Auguste had taken it from his car, it was gone by the time he reached the taxi. Piers looked back down the alleyway. A group of men walked by, drunk and singing. If Auguste had dropped a bag of money in the lane, it would have been found long ago. The same went for the area around Notre Dame, and it certainly wasn’t in his car. Piers shone the flashlight around the building site. It was nothing but mud with one line of footprints. Auguste had run in and straight out. What options were left?
Paris Love Match Page 16
