by Chris Ewan
He was breathing hard. His face was flushed, his body filmed with sweat, his heart beating rapidly. Anxiety, he supposed. Adrenalin. He really didn’t want to be stopped before he’d found what he was searching for.
A scattering of trees lay ahead and he sensed he was close. He weaved through almond trees and lotus trees. Then the earth became drier and it wasn’t long before he found himself in a stand of aged pines, the soles of his feet sinking through drifts of dead needles, his toes punting hollow-sounding cones. The fence was perhaps thirty feet away. The chirrup of the cicadas in the undergrowth on the other side was loud and insistent, like a maddening samba beat.
There was a sort of clearing in front of him. A break in the trees. And in the centre of the space was the dilapidated shack he’d seen on the surveillance footage.
His first instinct was to search for the cameras. He’d come at the cottage from the side but the images he’d seen on the monitors had been taken from the front and rear. The trees were sparse and it didn’t take him long to spot the two devices. They were high up in some tall maritime pines. The trunks had been stripped of all possible hand and footholds until well above the height he might jump to. There was no way of reaching the cameras or of avoiding their gaze. And if the housekeeper had alerted Alain already, there was every chance he might be watching.
But Trent wasn’t prepared to quit. He wanted to get inside the cabin. There was a pale green stable door at the front and he approached it at speed, visualising himself hurrying through the first camera’s field of vision, then yanking down on the handle once he was in the middle of the shot.
The door was locked. He leaned his weight on it. Pulled the other way. There was some give. The frame looked old and wormholed. It was possible he could kick it through, but it would be difficult to explain why he’d felt the need to if he failed to find anything connected to Aimée.
Slatted wooden shutters guarded the low windows on either side of the door. The timber looked to be as warped as the doorframe and some of the boards were split. Trent approached the shutters to the left of the door, unfastened the rusted iron latch and eased them back against squealing hinges. He cleared away the clotted husk of a spider’s web and pressed his face to the blackened glass. The interior was concealed in darkness. He could just glimpse the ghostly outline of some furniture hidden beneath a few old dustsheets. Looked like a rickety table and chairs. Possibly a wardrobe or dresser.
The sash fitting was secured with some variety of internal clasp. It would be easier to force open than the door. It was a possibility, for sure.
‘There’s nothing in there, you know.’
Trent jumped and spun round in the direction of the voice to find Philippe standing in front of him.
He still had on his blue swimming shorts but he’d covered his torso with a white V-neck T-shirt. He was holding a golf club in his fist, the shaft propped on his shoulder. A sand wedge. Plenty of weight in the head. One solid swing would do a lot of damage.
Philippe adjusted his fingers on the rubber handle, setting them down one after the other, like a musician running through a scale on a flute.
‘Why are you here?’ He lifted his chin and peered down his nose at Trent. ‘What are you looking for?’
‘There’s a possibility the gang might be watching the main house,’ Trent replied. ‘I thought it best to make sure nobody was inside.’
Philippe didn’t appear convinced. ‘It’s empty, apart from the rats and the spiders. Has been since my father bought this land. Originally it was going to be knocked down for a stable. Then maman decided she didn’t like horses any more.’
Trent nodded, wet his lips. He glanced at the golf club, then turned and pressed his face to the window once more. Cupped his hands round his eyes.
‘Who has the key?’ he asked.
‘Nobody. It’s only fit for knocking down. If you’re worried about intruders, you needn’t be. The fence is very secure. And besides,’ Philippe said, tapping Trent’s shoulder with the golf club, then pointing towards one of the cameras in the trees, ‘if anyone was out here, Alain would see.’
Trent sensed the double warning in his words. It was difficult to miss.
‘You seem very confident about that.’
‘My father is paranoid. The cameras see everything that happens here.’
Trent stared up into the unblinking lens. Felt himself shrink.
‘Why did you follow me?’
‘I didn’t,’ Philippe replied, as though insulted. ‘I was sent to fetch you. There’s been another call. They’re waiting to play you the recording.’
Chapter Twenty-nine
Trent entered the study with Philippe on his heels. He saw Stephanie and Alain standing alongside the desk in a tense silence, looking down at the phone. Stephanie was chewing her thumbnail. Alain had a hand on her shoulder.
‘Cosy,’ Philippe muttered, from close by Trent’s ear.
‘When was the call?’ Trent asked.
‘Ten minutes ago,’ Alain said. ‘No more.’
Trent advanced on the desk and unplugged the headphones from the recording equipment. He hit a button, then folded his arms across his chest and listened.
A hiss of feedback was followed by the dull clunk of the call connecting. After a short pause, Xavier’s animal growl swirled out into the room, thrashing against the walls.
‘You have the money?’ Somehow, he managed to snarl the words.
‘N-no, I don’t—’ Stephanie stammered.
‘You pay the money or we kill him. Five million euros. We know you have it.’
‘I don’t. I can’t get it. The accounts are all in Jérôme’s name.’
‘Don’t lie to us. We know about the insurance. Lie again and the cost goes up.’
Trent could sense that Alain was studying his reaction. He kept his face neutral, his attention fixed on the crackling speaker. If Alain was smart, he’d realise that the reference to the insurance policy didn’t prove anything. Jérôme could have told the gang about it himself.
But it did pose a problem. If Jérôme had revealed how much the policy could pay out, the gang now had a base-level asking price that it would be almost impossible to reduce. The negotiation would become a question of how much more the Moreaus were prepared to pay.
Scratchy feedback played on the recording. A long pause. It was clear that Stephanie had been thrown by Xavier’s apparent knowledge.
‘We know about your negotiator, too,’ Xavier said, voice buzzing the air like a chainsaw as he pressed home his advantage. ‘Tell him to speak.’
‘He’s not here,’ Stephanie blurted out.
A mistake. Xavier might have been taking a gamble on Trent’s involvement, or a bigger gamble on the existence of the insurance policy in the first place. Now both had been confirmed.
‘Let me speak with Jérôme,’ Stephanie said, collecting herself. ‘We need to know he’s still alive. We need proof. ‘
This was better. She’d returned to the script. Trent guessed Alain had played a part in that. Perhaps he’d drawn her attention back to what she should be saying.
‘Pay the five million and you can talk to him. We’ll return him to you.’
‘I don’t have it.’
‘Don’t lie to me. Put the negotiator on.’
‘I can get you some money, but not five million. Please. We want to help. But first you must show us he’s alive. Ask him this: where did he take me on our second date?’
‘No. Another question.’
The instant response didn’t surprise Trent. Xavier would be concerned that the question might be a plant. He’d know it was possible that Jérôme had rehearsed certain answers to communicate valuable information about his plight.
But Stephanie hadn’t been prepared for the reply. She dithered, then mumbled something offline, presumably to Alain.
‘OK,’ Stephanie said, sounding confused, ‘ask him what my favourite meal is.’
‘No. Another question.
’
Stephanie whined, frustrated. It took her several seconds to collect herself.
‘I’m thinking,’ she said.
‘Think fast.’
She didn’t. She couldn’t. But eventually, she said, ‘OK. Ask him where we were when he first told me that he loved me.’
Xavier snorted. ‘There is a package,’ he said, as if ignoring Stephanie’s request. ‘A gift. You will find it in the negotiator’s car. Go now and collect it. Then pay us our money. Or we kill your husband.’
Xavier’s threat was followed by a thud. He’d cut the connection. A prolonged beep signalled the end of the recording.
Trent looked up at Stephanie. She was shying from his gaze, hiding behind the curtain of hair that had fallen across her face.
‘You did OK,’ he told her.
‘No, I made an error. I let him know you were here.’
Trent shook his head. ‘If what he says about the package is true, then he knew already. And you got a proof of life question across. That’s good. What’s the answer?’
Stephanie faltered. Her mouth hung open, eyes round. Then she shook her head and swallowed so hard that Trent could see her throat bulge. ‘You can hear it from Jérôme,’ she told him. ‘When we speak with them again.’
‘I should go and collect the package,’ Alain put in. He was looking between Stephanie and the door. ‘Right now.’
‘No,’ Trent told him. ‘We both should. But you can drive.’
* * *
They took one of the spare vehicles from the triple garage, a BMW sedan in midnight blue. Trent seized the opportunity to take a look inside the outbuilding but all he discovered was an expanse of bare concrete and a silver Volkswagen 4 × 4 with tinted windows that was coated in a film of sand and dust.
‘Who maintains the grounds?’ Trent asked, pointing towards the vibrant green lawn as Alain sped along the driveway.
‘Contractor,’ Alain mumbled.
‘How often do they come?’
‘Twice a week. There are two of them. A father and son.’
‘Do you trust them?’
Alain turned and looked at him. ‘More than I trust you right now.’ His face was stern, eyes clouded. He’d stopped off in the security room on their way out of the building to fit his shoulder holster around his linen shirt. The Ruger was tucked away snugly, muzzle down beneath his left arm, burnished wooden grips and metal casing catching the light of the afternoon sun. It was loaded. No doubt about it. Alain was acting like a guy who felt supremely confident about his choice of weapon. Not hard, Trent guessed, when he was sitting beside him unarmed.
Alain flipped down his sun visor. He fumbled a clicker and compressed it with his thumb. The electric gate swung open. He paused, drumming his fingers on the gearshift, then sped through and waited on the other side until the gate was secure.
He stayed silent for most of the drive. Trent could tell it was an effort. The guy was breathing hard through his nose, lungs inflating, the Ruger moving in tandem with his expanding chest. He was tightening his hands on the steering wheel, squeezing it like he was wringing a towel. Then it got too much for him and he vented his lungs with a gush of air. Smacked the back of his skull against his headrest.
‘Let me guess,’ Trent said. ‘You don’t like that they know about the insurance policy.’
Alain stared across at him, eyes reddened with fatigue and fury. The Peugeot loomed up ahead. Alain wasn’t watching the road as he stamped hard on the brakes.
The BMW lurched and snaked and Trent was jarred forwards against his seat belt. His ribs smarted. They were still sore from the crash. He waited until the car had slewed to a halt, and said, ‘If it makes you feel any better, I don’t like it much, either.’
Alain sucked air through his nostrils like a weightlifter about to attempt a mighty clean and jerk. Trent could picture his lungs expanding rapidly, then contracting like a pair of giant bellows. Put a paper bag to his lips right now and he’d blow clean through it.
‘The package is in your car,’ Alain said, his words freighted with meaning.
‘That’s the way I heard it, too.’
‘Your car. And the package just happens to be inside.’
‘OK, I get it.’ Trent nodded as he unclipped his seat belt. ‘So what do you think? You think I drove up here with a parcel already in my car? Or do you think I left my car here for them? You think that’s why I didn’t park inside the gate?’
Alain grappled with his own seat belt and barged his door open with his shoulder. He paced towards the Peugeot, his muscular arms swinging fast, fingers clawed and ready to snatch for his revolver.
Trent stepped out, too. The BMW’s engine was still running. Warm air shimmied above the bonnet.
‘Something you might want to consider,’ he yelled. Alain kept moving, fingers twitching. ‘Something that could maybe save your life.’
Alain slowed. He glanced back over his shoulder.
‘I’ve known some gangs to lay booby traps,’ Trent told him. ‘The explosive kind.’
It wasn’t true. Nothing like it had ever happened to Trent. But he’d wanted to shake Alain’s confidence and bring him up short. Pierce his rage.
Alain hesitated. He was perhaps ten feet from the busted wing mirror. Too close if Trent was right.
He cocked his head and scanned the plateau and the forested ridge on the right, as if searching for a lookout or a guy with a detonator.
Trent stepped up to him, his footsteps rhythmic in the sudden hush. The sun was high above them. Mid-afternoon and the temperature had ramped up by several degrees. There was no breeze. No respite. The heat reflected up off the gravel road, the spiralling thermals dense and glutinous.
Trent could see the package on the front passenger seat. It was a white polystyrene shell about the size of a shoebox. Brown parcel tape had been wound around the middle of it.
‘What do we do?’ Alain hissed.
‘Do you see any wires?’
Alain shook his head.
‘Neither do I. How about underneath?’
Alain squatted to his haunches, his leather shoes creaking in the sun, then down onto one knee on the molten tarmac. He craned his neck and peered beneath the chassis.
‘I don’t think so,’ he said.
‘Then we should be OK .’
Trent moved past him and flattened his hand against the burning window glass. He wouldn’t need his keys. The car was unlocked. He could see that the door had been forced. The side panel had been levered away from the window seal.
He worked the door handle before Alain had an opportunity to get clear. The bodyguard was leaning back on the heel of one palm, his other arm raised, face averted, braced for a blast.
Trent cracked a grin. He whistled faintly, like Alain was a major dope, then wiped his brow in an exaggerated show of relief. He heaved the door right back and stooped to gather the package, hot air wafting out at him like he’d opened an oven.
The package was light. There was almost no weight to it at all. The polystyrene was warm to the touch. The tape warmer still.
Trent glanced around the cabin of the Peugeot. There was nothing to indicate that it had been tampered with in any way. He ducked his head. His Beretta was still taped to the underside of the dash.
‘Let me see,’ Alain said.
Trent passed the package back, then watched as Alain weighed and turned the box in his hands. He lifted it above his head and considered the base. There was no writing. No markings.
‘What do you think is in here?’ Alain sounded as if he was afraid that he already knew the answer.
‘A message,’ Trent replied. ‘Could be harmless.’
‘Should we open it?’
‘Not here. Open it back in the study. With the rest of the team.’
‘Is that wise?’
‘Together, you’re a unit. You shouldn’t act alone.’
Trent didn’t have any problem with the concept. He’d been looking for a way t
o engage Stephanie and Philippe as much as possible. He wanted them invested emotionally in the outcome of Jérôme’s predicament. So far, they’d been oddly detached. It was an easy guess that they each had issues with Jérôme. Perhaps something shocking might jar them into realising what was at stake.
And not just for them.
Alain nodded. ‘Then bring your car. Follow me and park in front of the house, where it’s safe.’
Safe. Not for Trent, but he didn’t challenge Alain’s suggestion. There was no rational excuse for leaving the Peugeot out on the road.
He fumbled in his pockets for his keys, then looked up to see that Alain had turned from him to face across the road, towards the dirt slope that the Land Cruiser had plunged down during the gang’s attack. He raised both hands to protect his eyes from the glare. The Ruger hung menacingly in its holster. It seemed to get bigger every time Trent looked at it.
‘What is it?’ Trent asked.
Alain lifted the package above his shoulder, like it was an American football and he was planning to throw it towards the end zone. ‘Somebody came up here to leave this for us,’ he said.
‘Does that mean I’m no longer a suspect?’
‘Perhaps they’re still here.’ Alain ignored the barb. ‘Perhaps they’re watching us, like they did before.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘We should check.’
He drew his Ruger and approached the dun-coloured slope, the package cradled beneath one arm, the revolver raised in his free hand. His shoes sank to his ankles in the sandy earth and he floundered upwards, swinging his body in an exaggerated arc from the hip.
Trent cursed to himself, then followed, digging his fingers into the baking dirt and hauling himself up fast behind. But they didn’t find anybody lurking when they reached the top. There were a few tyre tracks. Some harmless footprints. Trent had been careful not to erase everything after his early morning reconnaissance.
