by Chris Ewan
And now he was the one who stood between Trent and Jérôme. He was the guy who’d determine if he’d ever lay eyes on Aimée again.
‘Pay us our money. Or we kill your husband.’
Liquid fear trickled down his spine. He shuddered. Couldn’t help himself. Then he rolled back his chair, flicked his eyes towards the doorway and eased open the drawer he’d left unlocked.
The skeleton key was still there. He grabbed it and worked quickly through the rest of the desk. One of the drawers was empty. The next contained a laptop. Trent flipped up the lid but when the screen bloomed with light he found that it was password protected. He was no computer hacker, so he was forced to put the laptop away. Another drawer contained pamphlets and registration details and insurance dockets for a number of yachts. Trent flicked through them, crouched low behind the desk. Hidden among the leaflets was a sheaf of information about his own company and the services it offered. Aimée had produced the document on headed notepaper. It looked professional. Discreet. But he uncovered nothing that could point towards who might have targeted Jérôme for abduction. There was no way of linking Jérôme to Xavier. And there was no clue as to Aimée’s fate.
He closed the final drawer. Locked it securely. Dropped the key into his satchel.
Then he took one last, lingering look at Xavier’s note, and a fog of despair closed in around him.
YOU HAVE 48 HOURS OR WE CUT HIM AND SEND HIM HOME TO YOU IN PIECES.
Chapter Thirty-two
Trent retrieved his mobile from his satchel. He weighed it in his hand and looked over at the open door Alain had left by. Placing the call from the study without checking if anybody was eavesdropping was a risk too far, he decided, and since he was feeling hungry anyway, he made his way to the kitchen.
It was empty. The surfaces were just as clean and uncluttered as he remembered. He opened the fridge and his eyes settled on a plate of cold chicken. The meat looked white and flaky and tender, the waxed skin shiny and crisp. He lifted the plate from the fridge and grabbed a container of milk. He poured himself a glass. Drained it in one go. Poured himself a refill.
He started with one of the drumsticks. He ate it greedily, stripping the flesh to the bone, leaving only a knotted thread of cook’s string behind. He sucked his fingers clean, then moved across to the windows overlooking the back yard.
The swimming pool was deserted. The sun loungers, too. He’d half expected to spot Philippe out there, working on his tan. But perhaps he was on the front lawn hitting golf balls again. Or maybe he’d retired to whichever bedroom he was using.
There was no sign of Stephanie, either. Trent supposed she was in her dance studio. Perhaps she was running through some exercises, though he couldn’t help picturing her sitting on the floor, legs crossed and arms wrapped around her knees, staring blankly at her reflection in the full-length mirror.
He was pretty sure he knew where Alain was holed up. The door to the security room had been closed when he’d passed through the foyer and he’d spotted a bar of light shining beneath.
Trent returned to the plate of chicken and gathered up a slice of breast meat, jamming it in his mouth. He flipped open his mobile, eased the kitchen door closed and dialled Girard’s number.
‘It’s Trent,’ he mumbled, when Girard picked up. He eyed the kitchen door. Couldn’t sense anyone close. ‘What have you found out?’
‘It’s only been a few hours. I’m talking to people. It takes time.’
‘We don’t have it.’ Trent grabbed another piece of chicken. Took a bite. ‘Xavier had a package for the family. He left it in my car.’
‘Your car?’
Trent swallowed. ‘He knows I’m involved, Girard.’
‘He threatened you?’
‘Not directly. The package contained a photograph of Jérôme. I’m pretty sure it was staged.’
‘How sure?’
Trent told him about the rubber ear and the sham blood.
Girard didn’t speak for a moment. Then Trent heard the creak and snap of a cigarette lighter followed by a deep inhalation on the other end of the line.
‘I don’t like that he left the package in your car. It’s like he’s taunting you. It’s as if he knows something.’
Trent glanced back at the door. There was nothing to indicate that anybody was listening in but he still felt the need to cover his mouth with his hand. ‘He doesn’t know about Aimée,’ he whispered. ‘He can’t.’
‘Perhaps Moreau told him. Maybe Xavier plans to use it against you.’
‘There’s no reason for Jérôme to mention it to him.’
But not even Trent was sure about that any more. Jérôme had already let slip about the insurance policy. Who could guess what else he might spill?
‘Did you speak to the girl again? Did her friend mention the bodyguard being in Jérôme’s villa when she was attacked?’
‘Her friend didn’t say anything about a bodyguard. She only talked about Jérôme.’
‘But…?’
‘But that doesn’t mean he wasn’t there. A taxi dropped her off and Jérôme took her upstairs right away. She didn’t exactly get a guided tour of the villa.’
Trent thought of the pages he’d torn from Jérôme’s diary and stashed inside his boot. ‘The dancer’s name,’ he said. ‘Does she have the initials C.M.?’
Girard hesitated. ‘Yes. But how do you know this?’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Trent told him. ‘Stay focused on Xavier. But be fast.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Forget trying, Girard. Just find him.’
Trent hung up and slipped his phone into his back pocket. He tugged his lip in thought, then crept across to the door. He listened hard. Snatched it open. There was no one in sight.
He put the chicken back in the fridge, finished his second helping of milk and walked out into the foyer. And paused.
The door to the security room was ajar. Light was spilling out in a bright wedge onto the marble floor. It was glinting and twinkling around the door rim, as if it was the secret gateway to some magical alternative dimension.
The only sound Trent could hear from inside was the electric hum of the surveillance monitors and the background buzz and flicker of the ceiling light. He stepped closer and prodded the door. It swung back and tapped the wall. Alain’s seat was empty. The rows of colour screens were unwatched. Nobody there.
If it was some kind of trap, it was a tempting one. Trent slipped inside. He spread his hands on the desk and scanned the monitors. He saw footage from every camera: views of the perimeter fence, the gate, the driveway, the housekeeper’s cottage, the garage, the pool, the pool house and more. The seconds ticked by until the monitors fuzzed and the feedback shifted. He looked from screen to screen, absorbing the latest footage. But something wasn’t quite right and it took him a few moments to notice what was wrong.
He couldn’t see the summer cabin.
The monitor he’d spotted the cabin on previously was right in front of him. It was powered up and working perfectly well. But there was no view of the front of the shack. No view of the rear.
The image that was presently on screen was dark and indistinct and hard to fathom. He leaned closer. Finally he understood. He was looking at a close-up of the crusty brown bark of a tree trunk.
He frowned, and was still frowning when the monitors fizzed and went blank for a moment before blooming again with the original set of images. But the same monitor had the same problem. Still no cabin. The footage this time was of a knot of tree branches and a single pinecone with a wash of pale sky beyond.
Two cameras was no coincidence. It couldn’t be an accident. They’d been moved, but for what purpose? To conceal something, Trent supposed. And to prevent whatever might be happening from being recorded.
He considered his next move. He could try shifting the cameras manually until he had sight of the cabin. But if whoever was out there happened to hear or see the cameras move, they might sneak o
ut of shot before he could find out what was going on. He’d lose the element of surprise and the opportunity to confront the person responsible. So he decided to leave the cameras where they were and hurry to the cabin on foot.
He backed out of the security room and darted through the front door, the afternoon heat bathing his face and hands as he broke into a run. He could smell the warmed mulch in the flowerbeds he was passing and the cloying scent of the bougainvillea that smothered the walls. He glanced over his shoulder and the tubby cherub gazed blankly after him.
He ran hard, swinging his arms, pumping his legs, his lungs soon itching with anaerobic burn. He raced through the humid air and across the blurring grass. And as he increased his speed, as he upped his pace, he had the sensation of time slowing around him in equal measure, the journey taking too long, the distance to the ramshackle building seeming so much greater than before.
But he was getting nearer with every stride. He was closing in on his target, barrelling through the almond trees, the air cooler in the shade, the light dimmer. His tread sounded too loud. His breathing too harsh. He circled to the right, clasped a pine trunk in his arms and peered up into the green canopy. He could see the camera high above, pointing skywards through a clutch of branches. He had no way of knowing how long it might stay that way. It could rotate back at any moment.
He hugged the trunk, panting, and stared out through the sweat sheeting down from his brow and across his eyes.
From the outside, at least, the cottage appeared no different. The shutter on the left was still thrown back from when he’d opened it. The stable door remained closed. Looking at it now, it was hard for him to explain the cabin’s strange attraction to him. No matter how badly he wanted to find a trace of Aimée, he couldn’t pretend that the odds of her being inside were anything other than remote.
And yet, Jérôme was a risk taker. He was a guy who was prepared to flout the law by transporting illegal goods into France. He was willing to do business with arms traders and drug smugglers and people traffickers. He was prepared to bribe the police and government officials. He was arrogant enough to flaunt his ill-gotten wealth, to cheat on his wife, to believe that he couldn’t be caught.
So there was a possibility. A slim one, but not something he could afford to ignore.
He stalked through the trees to the side of the shack, stooped low, treading carefully, his boots sinking down through the spongy carpet of pine needles and dirt and leaves. He paced over to a timber wall that was bowed in the middle and greying with age. Some of the boards had split lengthways. Others were dry and flaking. He flattened himself against the decrepit structure and crept towards the rear corner, his shirt snagging on a splinter. Slowly now, he craned his neck around and scanned the tree line. The second camera was right where he’d expected it to be – zeroed in on the trunk it was fixed to.
His breath caught in his throat. His sight spiralled. He felt dizzy and weak, hot and trembling. He squatted and placed his head between his knees. Glanced down at his boots.
He stared harder.
There was something different about the ground beneath his feet. It wasn’t as soft or as cushioned as the earth all around. He scuffed it with his toe, moving aside a fine layer of pine needles and twigs. The surface was smooth. It was hard. He rapped on it with his knuckle. A hollow sound.
He smoothed his hands over the surface. It was a dry timber board. His fingers crabbed sideways, feeling for an edge. He found something else. A small hole. There was a second one near by, half filled with dried mud and fallen leaves. He poked at the filling and it gave way and plunged downwards. He hooked his fingers through the openings. Heaved. The board began to move, pivoting up just in front of him. But it wouldn’t shift completely. His weight was pinning it down.
He spread his feet very wide and tried again. This time the board came free in a spray of dirt. It was about the size of a loft hatch, fashioned from a solid sheet of hardwood. Trent flipped it over and laid it down a short distance away, dust rising in the air.
He muffled a cough. He spat. He wiped the damp from his face with the back of his hand and stepped forwards to see what he’d discovered.
There was a dingy chamber below. The beginnings of a staircase. The treads were warped and bowed and half rotted through. Trent wasn’t sure if they’d support his weight. Part of him didn’t want to find out. It was very dark down there. And there was a strong odour of cold and damp.
But he’d found a secret cavity beneath the cabin where anything might be hidden.
Even Aimée.
Chapter Thirty-three
Trent braced his forearms on the ragged edge of the opening and swung his legs down and in. The first stair tread groaned and flexed but held his weight. His fingers clawed into the chilled mud and loose stone at his side. His toe felt for the next step down. He found it, lower than anticipated. Only his head was outside now. He scanned the straggly wooded area and the stretch of manicured lawn leading towards the house. There was nothing to indicate that he’d been spotted. He took a final gulp of clean air and ducked his head into the gloom beneath.
Thin shards of light poked through the floorboards of the shack. Earth tumbled into his hair from above. He lowered his foot for the next step but what he found instead was the ground. It was firm and uneven with just a little give, like dense clay. The space was very low. He had to stoop to move forwards, shoulders brushing against the floorboards overhead.
Cobwebs clung to his face, getting inside his mouth. Something skittered across the back of his neck. He grabbed at it, scratching with his nails. He missed. Felt it burrowing beneath his shirt, mapping his spine.
The space reeked of wet and decay. Trent walked his hands above his head, feeling the outline of the warped boards. The wan light from above illuminated the tips of his fingers, making his flesh glow. He set his eye to a crack and found that he could see a slice of bare ceiling and the top of the rear wall. He tried another crack. The space above seemed to be one big room. There were no dividing walls. Fissures of light leaked in through the wonky shutters. He could just make out what looked like a table shrouded by an old cloth.
Dust sprinkled his eye.
He blinked and rubbed the heel of his hand until his sight cleared. Returned his attention to the space he was in. He spread his arms out wide and turned in a slow semicircle, his back and legs bent, thighs burning, then stumbled over to the end of the chamber, his feet catching on some kind of discarded rag. The wall was as rough and muddy as the floor. He flattened his palms against it and crabbed along to his left, kicking out with his feet to be sure he didn’t miss anything. Soon he hit a corner. He worked his way back in the opposite direction. Twelve paces, no more, until he reached the other side. So the space was relatively compact. Smaller than the cabin above.
He swivelled. The square of light from the hatch he’d come in by was as white and translucent as a drying sheet. It illuminated the space below in greyish tones. He could see an old rotted crate by the bottom of the stairs. Trent supposed the space had once been used for storage. Some kind of makeshift cellar.
But there was nobody down here. No obvious link to Aimée. And he was getting nervous about being underground. He’d left the hatch up above, where anyone could use it to seal him in. And the cameras had been moved for a reason. No way would two cameras shift automatically like that. Somebody had wanted something to happen here that wouldn’t be recorded.
If it was some kind of trap, it was a tempting one.
Trent was on his way out, moving fast, when he heard a noise that made him pause.
Muffled laughter. A gleeful yelp. The laughter was female. It drilled inside his brain. His head snapped round.
He heard a playful growl. A man this time.
It triggered more giddy laughing.
Then a muffled whump, like a mattress compressing. More giggling. More laughter. The floorboards shook and quivered. More dust fell down through the gaps.
Trent cov
ered his nose and mouth to stop himself from coughing. He wanted to see who was up there. He wanted to confirm his suspicions.
He scrubbed the grit from his eyes, then pressed his face to a crack in the boards. His angle was no good. He was beneath some kind of storage unit. He moved sideways and tried the next board along, then the one after that, grazing his knuckles on the abrasive surface.
He set his eye to the gap. Better. There was a bed above him. He could see the base of an old mattress that was spilling stuffing through the metal springs underneath. The springs were twanging and squeaking with the movements of the couple on the bed. An arm flopped downwards. The hand was petite. The fingernails painted.
Trent backed up slowly, setting down one heel behind the other, making sure of his footing before moving on. The floorboard he was looking up at wasn’t straight. It was bowed and gnarled. Sometimes the gap became so thin that he couldn’t see a thing. Other times, it was congested with dirt and muck. He took one more step backwards and his heel clunked against the bottom of the stairs. He froze. Held his breath. But there was no reaction from above.
Still his view wasn’t what he needed. He tried the next gap along. It was an improvement. He contorted himself, bending at the ankles and knees, leaning his head right back on his shoulders and grinding his forehead against the board. He peered along his nose. It was a long way from perfect but it was the best he could do.
He could see Stephanie’s face. She was sitting upright on the bed. Her silk blouse was undone. Her bra exposed. Bruising, too, Trent supposed. Her head was thrown back, mouth open, eyes closed.
It was impossible to see the guy beneath her but Trent felt like he had a pretty good idea who it would be. He’d already seen how close Stephanie and Alain were. He’d witnessed the intimacy between them. And right now, he really didn’t want to hear anything more. Stephanie was whining. The guy was grunting. And Trent was no kind of voyeur.
