Dead Line

by Chris Ewan

  Trent’s lip twitched. A trapped nerve. He felt the need to clear his throat. He always did when he was nervous.

  Trent gave a location. He added a request. He explained exactly what he needed and he interpreted the silence on the other end as a form of consent. ‘You can buy me breakfast,’ he added. ‘I’m hungry.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘An hour. Sooner if you can make it.’

  He lowered the receiver into its cradle and watched the recording equipment power down. The counter froze at 00.01.37. Then the green light went out and the red light bloomed.

  He moved aside the headphone wires and rested his finger on the button marked ERASE. He waited a beat. Pressed it.

  He rapped his knuckle on the counter. Squeezed his hands into fists and tried to fight temptation. But he couldn’t resist. He snatched up the receiver one last time. Checked the dial tone was still good. The low droning sounded bleak and off-key. It resonated with something loose and unstable inside his troubled mind as he paced towards his bathroom and wrenched on the taps to heat up the shower.

  * * *

  The young man who was located behind a window in a studio apartment on the opposite side of the square, one floor up, one building along, eased back in his wooden chair. The chair was old. It creaked. One of the rear legs was shorter than the others and the chair tipped sideways, then back, in a familiar tilt. The young man had slipped a cushion behind his back for comfort. At night, he took that same pillow and he spread it out on the fold-up card table in front of him and he crouched forward to sleep, arms crooked around him, like a kid who’d dropped off in the middle of class.

  And just like a school pupil, he had a notepad and pencil on the table in front of him. Next to the notepad was a digital camera with a zoom lens. Next to the camera was a prepaid mobile phone. The young man had yet to switch the mobile on. Had rarely powered it up. Beside the phone he had a set of car keys and beside the keys a book. It was a vintage detective novel with yellowing pages that he’d picked up from a market stall just a few streets away. Times when he grew tired of watching Trent’s apartment, he’d crack the window to make sure he didn’t miss any sounds that might alert him to something, and he’d scan a few pages. He’d finished the book once already. He was almost a third of the way through again.

  There was bread and cheese if he got hungry. He had bottled water and energy sodas to drink. There was an air mattress down on the floor for those occasions when he got too sleepy to see straight.

  He’d watched Trent go in. He’d jotted down the time in his notepad. Now he was waiting for him to come back out. It might be many hours before he appeared. Days, even.

  The waiting was no fun. The whole experience was miserable. But he was capable of enduring unpleasant situations. He’d had plenty of practice. And he was prepared to wait as long as necessary. He’d thought about it carefully, weighed up the pros and the cons, and he’d made a decision – he was going to follow Trent the next time he emerged.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Trent tore into a chunk of baguette and smeared it with butter and jam. He took a bite. Then another. He was eating fast. Chewing vigorously.

  He washed the bread down with strong black coffee. He needed the caffeine to fuel his brain just as he needed the food to fuel his body. He hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours but he hadn’t rested properly for weeks now. His thinking felt sluggish. It was as though he was somehow distanced from himself, able only to acknowledge the thoughts he was having and hear the things he was saying on some kind of fractionally delayed feedback. Sometimes he was astonished by his own behaviour. Other times, appalled. This new Trent, the one forged by the strain and desperation of his situation, was no longer someone he could easily predict.

  ‘You eat like a pig,’ Girard said.

  ‘Told you I was hungry.’

  Girard lowered his voice. ‘Killing a man makes you this way?’

  Trent ripped more bread free with his teeth. He checked over his shoulder. ‘There’s been no killing,’ he said, while chewing.

  ‘You couldn’t do it?’

  ‘No.’ His throat bulged as he swallowed. ‘But not for any of the reasons you have in mind.’

  Girard was sitting on the opposite side of the café table, wearing dark sunglasses that made it impossible for Trent to read his expression. He was reminded of an old-fashioned police mug shot, the glasses like a black slash obscuring the eyes of some dough-faced hoodlum. It didn’t help that the morning sun was high in a sky marred only by faint streaks of cumulus. The blinding glare shimmered on the marina waters and bounced off the sleek hulls of the yachts behind Girard and the aluminium table between them.

  The café occupied the ground-floor terrace outside a magnificent Haussman-style building, one of many similar restaurants that lined the Quai du Port. Mid-morning, they were mostly frequented by Marseillais drinking a quick espresso, a café crème or an orange pressé. Trent’s breakfast – crusty bread, a croissant, three types of jam, some sliced cheese and a small dish of mixed fruit – was an anomaly. He felt like one himself. All these ordinary people around him, living their ordinary lives, unaware of just how easily their worlds could irrevocably change.

  ‘Then why did you fail?’ Girard asked. He sounded as if he was quizzing himself as much as Trent. ‘It wasn’t the planning.’

  ‘The planning was fine. We identified the perfect spot.’

  Girard raised his coffee to his lips and Trent leaned forwards over the table until he could smell the fumes rising from the cigarette Girard clutched in his spare hand.

  He said, ‘Unfortunately, somebody else identified the spot as perfect, too.’

  Girard gulped his coffee too fast. He reacted as if scalded, dropping his cup with a clatter.

  ‘Moreau was kidnapped,’ Trent explained. ‘Right in front of me.’

  Girard said nothing and Trent went on to share the rest of his story, chewing his way through the remainder of the bread as he talked. He wasn’t concerned about being overheard. The tables and canvas chairs near to them were unoccupied, Girard was careful to signal him whenever their waiter came within earshot, and though pedestrians, dog-walkers and street beggars passed by, there was ample noise to mask what he had to say. Traffic was snarled up on the quayside – the result of the construction work that never seemed to cease in the city – and between the shouts of men in luminous vests and hard hats, the brash pneumatic rattle of a jackhammer, the bass putter of a generator and the revving of engines, Trent found that sometimes even Girard struggled to hear.

  He was spooning the last of the fruit into his mouth by the time he was done.

  There were only two pieces of information he hadn’t shared with Girard. One he never planned to – finding Serge’s corpse. Girard had helped him up to this point, it was true, but he was still a former police detective. Who knew where he might draw the line, especially now that Trent had stepped so far beyond it. And besides, Trent was ashamed of burying the chauffeur’s body. He had no desire to speak of it.

  The second piece of data he’d held back because he wanted to share it at just the right moment. It was absolutely crucial.

  ‘So … what do you plan to do now?’ Girard asked, taking a lingering hit from his latest cigarette.

  ‘Get Jérôme back.’

  Girard nodded, a look of shrewd calculation on his face, as if the process required nothing more than a period of calm reflection and considered thought. ‘And afterwards?’

  Trent shrugged. ‘Nothing has changed.’

  ‘The family have accepted you?’

  Trent pushed his fruit dish aside. ‘They’re listening to me. For now. I’m returning to the house this afternoon. But the bodyguard could be a problem. Tell me: the girl you talked to, the one who knew the dancer Jérôme attacked in Cassis, did she mention if the bodyguard was there at the time?’

  ‘She did not say.’

  ‘Did you ask her?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’


  ‘Can you contact her again? I need to know if he could have seen Aimée.’

  Girard nodded his consent. Drank more coffee.

  ‘Did you bring what I asked for?’ Trent asked.

  Girard reached inside his jacket. He removed a tan leather case. It was flat and compact, like a pouch for a set of competition darts. He slid it over to Trent. Watched Trent cover it with his palm, then ease it off the table and slip it into his pocket.

  Girard sucked on his cigarette, head over to one side, eyes hidden by his dark glasses. Way above him, high on the hilly ridge overlooking the city, sunlight glinted off the gilded statue of the Virgin Mary atop the candy-striped facade of the basilica of Notre-Dame de la Garde. Some locals considered the statue to be the city’s guardian. Trent felt like he could use her protection right now.

  ‘You didn’t just meet me for this,’ Girard said. ‘There’s something more.’

  Trent squinted into the flinty sunshine. He lowered his gaze from the church and the tumbling cascade of rickety buildings on the far side of the quay, to the dun-coloured Fort St Nicolas. The complex rigging on a tall ship tilted in the corner of his vision. A maritime flag snapped and fluttered.

  ‘You mind?’ he asked, gesturing toward Girard’s cigarettes.

  He reached out and freed one, tamping it down on the table to hide the shake in his hand. He fired Girard’s lighter. Inhaled the fumes. Plucked a stray thread of tobacco off his tongue.

  ‘There is something,’ he said. ‘Something important. I didn’t tell you who the ransom demand came from.’

  ‘Then tell me now.’

  ‘It stays between us. I need your word.’

  ‘You have it.’

  Trent exhaled towards his brow, feeling the snag and sweep of the smoke against his skin.

  ‘Xavier,’ he said, finally.

  One word. But it was enough.

  Girard swiped the sunglasses from his face. His sunken eyes loomed fat and bulbous.

  ‘You’re serious?’

  ‘Why would I make up something like that?’

  ‘Was it him?’

  ‘It’s been eighteen months, Girard.’

  Girard’s thick eyebrows bunched. He stared at Trent with feverish intensity.

  ‘But yes,’ Trent heard himself say. ‘It was him. It was Xavier.’

  Girard emitted a strange choked noise, like something inside him was slowly deflating.

  ‘I need to know how close you’ve got,’ Trent said. ‘I need to know where they might be holding Jérôme.’

  Girard shook his head dazedly.

  ‘You must have found something.’

  ‘Not enough. Little hints. Nothing more.’

  ‘The theory was that they were using a cave system, wasn’t it? Perhaps they’re doing the same thing again now.’

  Girard looked up towards the ranks of fancy apartments above Trent’s head, their ironwork balconies shaded by striped sun canopies. His pouched eyes had an unfocused, dreamlike cast to them.

  ‘Do you have any idea how many caves there are in France?’

  ‘But his gang can’t be far away. Based on the drop schedule the last time around—’

  ‘Based on the drop schedule.’ Girard’s jaw was fixed. He was straining to keep it that way. ‘It gives us nothing. You think I haven’t tried? Nobody talks. They’re all afraid of this guy.’

  ‘So look harder.’

  Girard shook his head ruefully. He laid his sunglasses down on the table and scrubbed a palm across his face. He checked over his shoulder. Turned back again. ‘You know what you have to do,’ he said, leaning forwards. ‘Make the family pay. Make it quick. Do it soon.’

  ‘This could be the best chance you’ll ever get of finding him, Girard. He’s somewhere right now, watching over Jérôme. His location is fixed. We just need to find it.’

  Girard laughed faintly, like the entire scenario was some elaborate trick designed simply to frustrate him. ‘You do not want this.’

  ‘I wouldn’t ask otherwise.’

  ‘No. You worry. I understand it. The situation is difficult for you.’ He covered his heart with his hand. ‘For me, I cannot imagine it. But please, I know how you feel. How you really feel. We’ve talked too many times. You hate police investigations. Hate interference. Especially with this guy. After last time…’ He shook his head in a dispirited way. Reached over and gripped Trent’s balled fist. Clenched it hard. ‘So now you must trust yourself. Believe in your approach.’

  ‘It’s not that simple. There’s a problem with the money.’

  ‘But the insurance policy?’

  Trent shook his head. ‘I need you to look, Girard. Regardless of the risks. I know you’ll tread as lightly as you can.’

  Girard searched Trent’s eyes for a long time. He looked deep inside them. And what he saw there seemed to sadden him greatly.

  ‘And if I find him?’ he asked, voice husky.

  ‘I’m only interested in Jérôme. All I care about is Aimée.’

  Girard pushed back his chair and summoned a strained smile, like a patient leaving a doctor’s surgery after receiving a crushing diagnosis. ‘You’ll be at the Moreau estate?’

  ‘Later,’ Trent told him. ‘I have a couple of things to arrange first. But don’t try to contact me. It’s safer if I call you.’

  * * *

  The young man lowered the camera from his eye. The zoom function had worked perfectly. He’d fired off a whole series of shots at a distance approaching something like four hundred metres. The sun was blazing behind him. It was shining directly in Trent’s eyes. He’d captured Trent squinting in many of the pictures. But that was fine. It was no problem. Trent was clearly identifiable.

  It had been trickier with the man sitting opposite. The back of his head had been pointed towards where the young man was standing. Plus he’d been wearing dark sunglasses for most of the meeting. The young man had had to be very patient. But eventually he’d got his reward. There was one short instant, a precious moment, when the man had removed his glasses and turned his head and faced him directly. And the young man had seized his chance and captured it. One fractional compression of his finger. One simulated electronic shutter sound.

  One inescapable piece of digital evidence.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Trent decided to drive back towards Aix in the battered Peugeot. It was a risk. A sizeable one. Seeing the car might remind Alain to run the plates. He’d discover they were fakes. But he might choose to do it anyway and there were explanations Trent could provide. He could claim that the dummy plates had been part of the original security test he’d devised, or his way of avoiding being tracked by the criminal gangs he’d frustrated in recent months.

  Better to be brazen, he reasoned. Act as if he had nothing to conceal. But there were a couple of things he could do to make things easier on himself. First, he secured his Beretta beneath the steering column with a swatch of duct tape and then he stashed the rest of his abduction equipment in the boxroom in his apartment. Second, he beached the Peugeot in the same spot where it had ended up following the attack on Jérôme. He walked the rest of the way to the Moreau estate with a canvas satchel slung over his shoulder, sweating in the relentless noontime sun, breathing in the familiar scents of warm earth and heated tarmac and wild herbs, his skin tightening and burning, his socks damp with perspiration inside his boots.

  The cameras swivelled and tracked his progress from the extreme edge of the property. They monitored him closely, one after the other. He didn’t bother with the intercom when he reached the gate. He just stood in the exact centre of the road and waited for the cameras to zero in on him. He picked the left one. Lifted his face to it and stared blankly into the lens. He didn’t smile. Didn’t raise a hand. Just waited, arms loose by his sides in the stillness and the heat, until the camera jerked a fraction. A moment later he heard an electric buzz and the gate dropped on its hinges and swung inwards.

  Nobody came to gre
et him.

  Trent walked alone under the watchful gaze of the surveillance equipment. He ascended the steep gravel rise, passing through the narrow fingers of shade being thrown across his path from the double line of cypress trees, scanning the grounds for a glimpse of the rickety cabin.

  He was over the crest and in sight of the house when he heard a dull thump and caught sight of a streak of white in the corner of his vision. He turned his head. Locked onto the racing object.

  A golf ball.

  It had bounced on the striped lawn and kicked on and fallen again and then trundled to a halt not far from where he was standing. There were more balls near by, scattered in a loose grouping across the neatly trimmed grass like a constellation of fallen stars.

  Trent kept walking. Thirty seconds. A minute. Then another ball looped down from above and struck the ground and pitched up and bounced on before losing momentum and skittering to a halt.

  There was no shout of warning. No concern for his safety.

  He crossed the driveway to the opposite side. Within a hundred metres more he was able to watch Philippe take aim at another projectile. He swung hard and removed a chunk of turf as he sent the ball zinging wildly by.

  Philippe wasn’t dressed for golf. He was wearing oversized sunglasses with white plastic frames, a pair of blue swimming shorts and his canvas boat shoes. His body was slim and wiry with the beginnings of a swell around the belly. He glanced up at Trent as he approached but he didn’t wave or nod or otherwise acknowledge him. He simply lowered his face and gathered in another ball with his golf club.

  The club was a four or five iron, Trent reckoned, but it was obvious Philippe was no golfer. His stance was wrong, face onto the ball, with his right foot in front of the left, like a swordsman about to lunge at an opponent. His grip was low down on the metal shaft, beneath the rubber handle, and his swing was an awkward, truncated affair that snapped up from the hip and ended at the shoulder, then chopped downwards again. But his makeshift technique was matched with plenty of aggression and the ball zipped fast into the air, then hooked wildly to the left.