by Chris Ewan
The gate that guarded the entrance to the villa was a single moulded panel of thickened steel. It was as high as his shoulder, topped with metal barbs. The wall alongside it was even taller.
He could see the sloping roof of the villa just beyond, the terracotta tiles slick with rain. The cluster of bushy trees that surrounded the property were weighed down and dripping with moisture.
He felt oddly numb. He’d been sure that he would sense something when he got here. Some kind of cosmic signal. A tightening of his scalp. Perhaps a whispering in his ear – a haunting trace of Aimée’s voice that only he could hear.
But there was just the wetness and the stillness and the creepy, muted vacuum of a neglected street in the first moments following a storm.
The surveillance camera stared blindly at him.
He hoped.
* * *
Trent dropped from the wall into soft mulch and rain-soaked shrubs. Thorny branches snagged his dark jacket as he pushed his way through onto a dewy lawn shrouded beneath knee-high ribbons of mist. The villa was smaller than Trent had anticipated. Two storeys, perhaps three bedrooms. But it had large arched picture windows on the ground floor to make the most of the view. And the view was staggering.
A rectangular infinity pool, perched at the very edge of high sea cliffs, framed the outlook. Ahead was only ocean. Blue-black and shimmering. Undulating and cresting. Hemmed down by the swirling bank of menacing grey clouds.
Way off to the left, Trent could see the hazy blur of the storm squall passing on. A single light blinked and dipped in the dark. A buoy, or perhaps a lone ship. The tiny fishing harbour of Cassis was just out of sight.
‘It makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’ Girard asked. He stepped onto the squelching grass alongside him, brushing damp leaves from the sleeves of his mackintosh.
Trent jerked his head around.
‘Are you living the wrong life?’ Girard pointed his chin towards the view. ‘Bend some rules and all this could be yours.’
‘It’s just a house,’ Trent mumbled.
He turned to face the villa and ripped free the Velcro fastener on a pocket on his cargo trousers. He removed a heavy Maglite torch. Slapped it against his gloved palm. Girard’s specialist had been tasked with disabling the electricity supply as well as the security cameras, so there’d be no lights inside. Later, Girard would contact him and give him the all clear to come back and reconnect everything before dawn.
‘Which door?’ Trent asked.
‘Middle one.’
Trent twisted the torch lens and a powerful white beam pierced the foggy dark. He swung it downwards, fixing a pair of French doors in the centre of the blazing spotlight. He walked towards them, the beam bouncing with his movements and reflecting off the blackened glass until the glow centred in on the glinting brass door furniture. A key was poking out of the lock, just as Girard’s contact had said it would be. Trent rotated the key, then removed it and slipped it into his pocket.
He snatched a breath, seized the handle and twisted it in one fluid movement.
The door opened outwards. No resistance whatsoever.
Trent listened very carefully. He could feel a tightening in his thighs – a tensing of the muscles he’d need to call on if the alarm started to wail.
But he heard no piercing squeal. There was only the low, wheezing burble of the swimming-pool pump, the distant crash and shuffle of the surf at the base of the cliffs, and Girard’s ragged breath on his neck.
‘How do we know your man hasn’t disturbed anything?’ Trent hissed. ‘Or taken something?’
‘He’s a professional.’
‘He’s a thief.’
‘You’re nervous,’ Girard said. ‘I understand it. But we mustn’t delay.’
Girard didn’t understand. How could he? Somewhere inside this house, through this very door, Trent might come face to face with his deepest fear. He might find the proof that Aimée was lost to him for good. That she was never coming home. That the source of all the warmth and light in his life had been extinguished for ever.
His hand trembled, the torch beam vibrating as he aimed it through the gap in the door and cast it around. The spotlight jinked left and right and back again. It revealed a living room with a sleek open-plan kitchen at the rear. The furniture was spare but high-end. The pieces looked to have been carefully selected. There was a lot of cream leather and metal and glass. A display case off to the right contained a model of some kind of super-yacht.
‘Come.’ Girard reached inside his jacket and removed a torch of his own. He clicked it on, pointed the beam at the ground and nudged Trent forwards.
Trent’s movements were painfully slow, like he was submerged in water, and it took an age for him to pass through the door. He swallowed drily. Listened to the buzz and click in his ears. Felt the stillness envelop him and numb his senses.
He stood very still, adjusting to the unlit space and the sensation of his heart firing like a machine gun in his chest. Girard glided past him and cast his torchlight around the kitchen. The counters were bare. He opened cupboards and closed them again. He slid drawers out and in.
There was a door on the far right. Girard inclined his head towards it. Trent swallowed a lump the size of his fist and forced himself to step around by the yacht in the display case, his boots leaving damp treads on the pale marble floors.
He clenched the stippled aluminium casing of the torch and followed Girard into a large garage, cool in temperature. Concrete floor, painted breezeblock walls, a pair of up-and-over doors fitted to an electric mechanism. There was space for two vehicles inside but only one was parked there.
Trent felt the floor tilt beneath him. The car ballooned in his vision, then slammed into focus.
A blue Renault Clio. The driver’s door was scratched and dented. The silver diamond emblem was missing from the front.
Aimée’s car. Unmistakable. No doubt about it.
He staggered forwards. Extended his gloved hand in slow, jerking increments and tentatively spread his fingers on the window glass. A groan escaped his mouth.
He fumbled downwards. Grasped the catch. Wrenched open the door.
The scent of her favourite perfume rushed out at him. Notes of citrus and jasmine. A synthetic embrace.
He grasped the steering wheel. Bent forwards and mashed his cheek into the plastic. A horrible logic was bearing down on him. Aimée was very beautiful. Strikingly so. She was given to flirtation and she was funny and sweet. On a couple of occasions, clients had misread her signals … He thought of Jérôme’s terrible temper. The rage he’d been in with the dancer who’d spurned his advances. Had Aimée done the same thing? Had Jérôme snapped?
The sound of cautious footsteps roused him and he became aware of Girard stepping around the back of the car. A short pause, then Trent heard the clunk of the boot mechanism, then nothing more. The silence lingered. Slowly, Trent raised his eyes to the rear window. He could see Girard’s gloved hand on the boot lid.
He stumbled round to join him in a daze.
But all the boot contained was Aimée’s spare umbrella and the warning triangle Trent had equipped her with in case she broke down.
He tried to speak. Found that he couldn’t. He dumbly opened and closed his mouth as a stinging wetness clouded his vision.
‘I’m sorry,’ Girard said, voice pitched low. ‘You can wait outside, if you prefer…’
Trent shook his head roughly and backed away from the car and burst through the door into the kitchen before his thoughts could catch up to his actions. He lurched through into a hallway, torchlight arcing wildly from side to side. The front entrance to the villa was ahead of him. Stained-glass panels on either side of a glossy black door. There was a carpeted staircase to one side. Trent clambered up.
The balcony at the top overlooked the darkened foyer. Girard came pacing along behind him, his torch projecting a fast-moving disc onto the floor.
Four closed doors led off from the balcony.
Trent burst through the one immediately facing him. It opened into a luxurious bathroom. Beige tiles lined the floor and walls. There was a walk-in shower cubicle and a sculpted bathtub. The fittings were high-quality, the soft white towels fluffy and dense.
A mirror above the sink jabbed the flare of his torch back at him. He shielded his face with his arm, then lowered the beam and caught sight of his macabre reflection. His face was gaunt against his liquid black clothing, lips peeled back from gums and teeth.
He wheeled away towards a pebble-glass window positioned over the toilet. It hinged open from the top and looked just large enough for a slim person to climb through. A ballet dancer, say.
Trent seized the handle. He twisted it and forced the unit outwards. It opened very wide. He poked his head through the gap, water dripping onto him from the plastic frame. He shone his torch into the vaporous, shimmying black. A wooden trellis was fitted to the wall just below. Scented plants were knotted around it. It was no ladder but it was just possible that it could bear a young woman’s weight. Especially one as light and athletic as a ballet dancer.
Trent was poised to withdraw his torch when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He reared upwards and whacked his head on the window.
‘My friend,’ Girard said. ‘Something you should see.’
Trent clutched his hand to the back of his skull. Girard’s expression was sombre. His eyes quivered with a sorry pleading.
‘Show me,’ Trent managed, before following Girard out of the bathroom towards the open door that lay in wait.
Girard led him into a generously proportioned bedroom. Trent’s torchlight revealed a low double bed, neatly made, with a plain grey duvet and plenty of cushions. He saw two bedside units and a single armchair that faced one entire wall of mirror-glass panels. A rounded wooden beam was fitted horizontally across the mirrors at approximately waist height. A balance barre.
So this was where Moreau had made dancers perform for him. Perhaps some had been happy to do it. But at least one of the girls had been terrified.
Girard coughed discreetly and squatted next to a circular rug in the middle of the floor. He aimed his torch downwards and rolled the rug back. There was a rusty brown stain shaped like a lopsided figure eight on the cream carpet beneath.
Trent swayed. He reeled.
‘Could be the dancer’s,’ he muttered.
‘We can test it,’ Girard replied. ‘Take a sample. I can speak to some people I trust.’
‘Probably the dancer’s,’ Trent said again.
But even as he spoke, there was more still to come. He’d spotted something. It was glinting at the edge of the pool of light being cast by Girard’s torch.
The item was down on the floor, nestled behind the foot of the bed. Swinging his own torch into the space, Trent slumped to his knees and reached out a lifeless hand.
A necklace.
Fine silver chain, as fragile as spider’s silk. The chain was threaded through a solid silver locket. It was polished and smooth, a perfect oval. He removed his gloves and held the necklace in his quaking palm. The clasp was broken. It looked like it had been forced apart. He wedged his squared-off thumbnail beneath the locket’s delicate catch. The lid flipped open and a wrenching moan funnelled out from him.
Trent was staring at a picture of himself.
And – bam – now he was back in his own bedroom, two months before, his sleep-gritted eyes watering against the dazzling sunlight streaming in through the Venetian blind. Aimée was beside him, her lush hair fanned out on her pillow. She’d just elbowed him awake and was biting down on her lip, fighting a grin. It was a fight she was losing. Her eyes danced with delight. With anticipation of a secret about to be revealed.
And he looked up. Up past her twisted lips and arched eyebrows. Up to her clenched fist. To the object she was holding. White plastic. A stick. There was a tiny greyscale display on it. A symbol on the display. It was a perfect circle with a facsimile grin. A smiley face.
‘Wake up, papa,’ Aimée cooed, and then she reached for her phone on the bedside table and snapped this image of Trent – the very one he was holding in his hand inside the locket – looking startled, dazed, a big stupid grin on his face.
‘For me,’ she whispered, and her smile was as bright as the sunlight streaming into the room. ‘A memory to keep. The day our lives changed for ever.’
* * *
Later, outside on the misted lawn, Girard was saying, ‘Let me contact the right people.’ He was talking in an urgent rush, his hand on Trent’s shoulder, his voice at his ear. ‘I’ll speak to the best detectives I know. Honest men and women. They’ll arrest Moreau. They’ll pressure him until he tells us what happened here.’
Trent’s head pitched forwards and he spat up more bile onto the rain-swamped grass. He was listing to one side, the torch gripped limply in one hand, the locket held tightly in his other fist.
‘You said it yourself.’ Trent’s voice was trancelike. Weak. ‘He pays the right people. He has influence. Protection.’
‘He has Aimée.’
Girard didn’t say that she was likely dead. He didn’t need to.
‘No police,’ Trent told him. He stared mournfully at the tricksy darkness out at sea. The swirling waters and hidden tides. The dark mysteries lurking beneath. ‘Promise me. We search this place. The house. The grounds. All of it.’
‘And if we can’t find her? What then?’
‘Then I’ll get to him,’ Trent said. ‘I’ll take him. And I’ll force him to tell me what I need to know.’
Chapter Twenty
The sky was a barely-there blue by the time Trent reached the Peugeot. The damage wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. The front bumper was cracked and hanging down close to the flattened tyre, and the catch on the bonnet had sheared away so that the bent metal lid was raised upwards like a gaping mouth. A few splintered fragments of headlamp remained, but most of the clear plastic was sprinkled on the dusty ground amid the remnants of the fake number plate he’d attached.
Trent had seen many vehicles in a worse state of repair being driven round Marseilles on a daily basis. The French often used the bumpers of other cars to help them park. They thought nothing of scratching a door or denting a panel. So he didn’t foresee a problem with driving the Peugeot back into the city, provided he could patch it up.
The car was equipped with a jack and a wheel-nut wrench and a spare wheel, so the puncture wouldn’t be a problem. And he had other tools at his disposal. They were mostly stashed in the rear, where he’d folded the seats down, leaving plenty of space for a man to be laid flat and covered over with the tarpaulin and the blankets he’d spread out. There were ropes there. Plus cuffs for ankles and wrists, as well as a roll of high-tensile duct tape that he could use to lash the bonnet shut and the bumper back into position.
He unlocked the car and climbed in behind the wheel, moving aside the ski mask and his new pair of black leather gloves, eyes drifting to the scarred wooden stock of the shotgun that was wedged into the footwell.
All of the equipment he’d diligently assembled was useless for now. He’d acquired it and laid it out so carefully and it looked sort of forlorn, like a buffet for a party guest who’d failed to show up.
He grunted. The same way Alain tended to grunt. Maybe it was catching.
He was hot and sweating copiously. He was very thirsty.
There was a bottle of water in the glove box. Some snack food, too. Potato crisps and a pack of cold pancakes and some chocolate. It was no feast but it would have been enough to sustain him if the abduction and interrogation he’d planned to carry out had gone on for any length of time.
He drank the water, listening to it glug down his throat, wishing he had some fresh coffee. He felt drained and sluggish from lack of sleep. The blunt aroma of dried sweat rose up from his body. It had soaked into his denim shirt. He lowered his window, reached into his pocket and removed his wallet. He flipped it open. Thumbed out the picture of Aimée.
>
He smoothed his fingers over the worn surface. Over her dazzling smile. He allowed himself, just for a moment, to remember how he’d removed her sunglasses and she’d cried, only an hour or so later, when he’d dropped to one knee on the burning sand and opened the blue felt box with the ring inside. How he’d uttered those fateful words, asking her to spend the rest of her life with him. How they’d embraced and kissed. How she’d leaned back to slip on the ring and he’d rested his palm on her bronzed abdomen and given the smallest, slightest squeeze to the baby she was carrying.
It was too much. He could still remember the feel of her skin, the taste of sun lotion as he bowed his head and kissed her just below her navel. He jammed the photo away, the wallet in his pocket. He tossed the water aside and twisted the key in the ignition, and the engine coughed and spluttered, then fired up no problem at all.
Trent slapped the dash. The chassis vibrated and shook beneath him. The diesel unit rumbled. He slipped the Peugeot into first and edged across the dusty road in a looping arc, the punctured tyre slapping wetly against the tarmac. He stopped at the opposite side, then reversed towards the edge and finally set off in the direction he’d come from the previous night.
He didn’t drive fast. Third gear was enough. The Peugeot was slumped down on the left. The flattened rubber pattered limply.
He crouched forwards over the wheel, scanning the ground on his right. It was mostly rock. Some scrub and weeds and isolated pines. He was thinking back in his mind to the night before. He was trying to recollect the exact sequence of events and figure out how far the Mercedes had managed to go on after the Land Cruiser had bashed into it the first time.
Not far. He found what he was looking for within a couple of hundred metres. There was a steep sandy slope on his right. Tyre tracks in the dirt.
Trent eased the Peugeot to a halt and cut the engine, then stepped out and got down on his haunches. The tracks were clear and distinctive. Off-road tyres. The treads had bit hard into the loose earth. The dry night air hadn’t disturbed them in the slightest.
