by Chris Ewan
He scooped a handful of coins out of his pocket and stacked them on the bill, then flicked open the newspaper. He held it before him with spread arms and started to scan the text.
* * *
Viktor wasn’t good at looking elsewhere. He left his espresso untouched, his attention fixed on the flower stall. His body was hunched up in his chair, one knee raised, hands clutched tightly around his shin, eyes vigilant. He was constantly rocking forwards and backwards, shaking his head, muttering to himself.
Watching Viktor – his restlessness, the indiscreet manner in which he was staring at the guy behind the flower stall – was making Trent only too aware of how consumed he’d been by Aimée’s disappearance during the past weeks. The kid must have given himself away a hundred times during the period when he was holed up in the apartment across the square, keeping an obsessive eye on his movements, and yet Trent hadn’t noticed him once.
What else had he missed? What other things should he have spotted?
He folded his newspaper and asked Viktor for his camera, then began scrolling through his photos. There were hundreds of images. Some of him. Some of Girard. A few of Alain, including one of him taking a photograph from the window of the silver 4 × 4. Some were of complete strangers who’d just happened to pass by. Trent didn’t find anything that might help him, and it was an unsettling feeling, like flicking through a scrapbook of memories he didn’t know he had.
Suddenly, Viktor reared up in his chair, breaking Trent’s concentration. He’d let go of his leg and was leaning forwards, as if he was about to spring to his feet. His fingers dug into the table, wrists shaking. But it was his expression that intrigued Trent most of all. His face was flushed. His jaw jutted forwards and his eyes seemed to swirl with a strange intensity.
Trent tracked Viktor’s gaze. He looked over at the flower stall.
Arnaud was talking to a heavyset man with his back towards them. The man was just an inch or so taller than the flower seller but he seemed to tower over him. The black military-style shirt he had on was stretched taut across his muscular torso, the short sleeves ringed tight around swollen biceps coloured with sleeve tattoos. His stance was wide, the top of a pair of white briefs visible above the waistband of his stonewashed jeans.
‘What is it?’ Trent asked Viktor.
But Viktor didn’t respond. It was as if he couldn’t hear, as though he were peering through some kind of soundproofed tunnel that led only to the two men at the flower stall.
The guy in the black shirt was carrying a brown padded envelope that he pressed into Arnaud’s chest. He watched as the flower seller lifted the flap and checked its contents.
Arnaud seemed relieved by what he found inside. His shoulders fell and he resealed the flap and nodded and looked around for a safe place to store the envelope. He tucked it somewhere beneath the stall.
When he straightened, the guy with the sleeve tattoos checked the time on his watch. His watch was large and bulky. It had an aluminium wristband that glinted in the afternoon sun.
Viktor’s breath caught in his throat. ‘Look,’ he whispered.
The guy wasn’t finished with his watch just yet. He used his thumb to release the metal catch on the strap. The wristband sprang open and hung loosely around his painted arm. He flicked his wrist, rotating it fast. The watch swung around in a complete circuit and ended up exactly where it had started. The guy fastened the clamp. Lowered his arm.
Viktor’s body slackened. Trent reached out and grabbed his shoulder.
‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘Do you know that guy?’
Viktor nodded, his eyes misty and roving.
‘Tell me.’ Trent shook Viktor hard. ‘Who is he?’
The guy had turned sideways on. He had a low caveman brow. Eyes that seemed to be set just a fraction too far apart.
‘He’s one of them,’ Viktor managed, in a voice that quavered with amazement and fear.
The guy was walking away now. He was passing through a narrow gap between the flower stall and the butcher’s stand next to it. Trent could see that a blue panel van had been double-parked on the street behind, its hazard lights blinking.
‘You’re certain?’ Trent asked.
‘I remember the tattoos. And the watch. The gesture.’ Viktor gulped air. He jerked his wrist, mimicking the stunt the guy had pulled with his timepiece. ‘He was always doing that.’
Trent was out of his chair very fast. He hauled Viktor to his feet by the collar of his shirt. The kid scrabbled at his throat as Trent dragged him away towards where they’d left Viktor’s Golf.
Trent didn’t pause or look back. He didn’t hesitate when the waitress called after them. He’d forgotten his newspaper but he wasn’t about to return. He paced through the crowds, Viktor stumbling alongside him, his lungs tight and airless, his heart thumping hard in his chest.
Chapter Forty-nine
Trent handled the driving. He’d taken the keys from Viktor without any discussion. He didn’t intend to lose the blue van. He wanted to be in complete control. And besides, Viktor was in no shape to drive. He was curled up in the front passenger seat, his scarred hand tucked protectively under his right arm, his body twisted to one side, as if shying away from the situation. He kept sneaking a look out through the windscreen, then cowering back into his seat.
Trent asked himself if he should pull over and let Viktor out. But he didn’t want to stop. Didn’t want to delay. Traffic was heavy in central Marseilles. They could get snarled up and lose sight of the van. It wasn’t a chance he was willing to take.
‘The guy with the tattoos and the watch,’ Trent said. ‘Is he Xavier?’
Viktor shook his head, quick and wary.
‘You’re sure? You said they always wore masks.’
‘They did. He’s not Xavier. But he’s definitely one of them.’
‘Based on the watch thing?’
‘I remember it. And the tattoos. The way he stands. His shape.’
‘OK,’ Trent said.
‘It’s him.’ There was no faking the terror in Viktor’s voice. His words were shaky but his conviction was strong.
Trent nodded. ‘I believe you.’
He reached inside his shirt pocket, removed his mobile and flipped it open. He offered it to Viktor. Told him the four-digit security code.
‘Type in the number plate,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to forget it.’
Viktor almost dropped the phone. He scrambled to catch it, then prodded at the keypad with clumsy fingers.
The blue van was a Renault Trafic. It was probably no more than three or four years old. It was clean and well maintained. It featured no signwork and no distinguishing marks. Chances were high that the plates were fake but it was about the only thing they’d have to go on if Trent lost the tail.
The van was moving east through the city, heading towards the tunnel that ran under the Vieux Port where Trent had pursued Jérôme, Stephanie and Alain in the Mercedes.
Viktor prodded a final button. ‘Should I call the police?’ he asked.
Trent didn’t respond. The van was preparing to turn left at a junction up ahead. Trent moderated his speed. He didn’t want to get too close but he didn’t want to get trapped by the lights, either. There were two cars between them.
‘I think we should call the police,’ Viktor said, like he’d reached a decision for both of them. ‘I can do it. I can give them the licence number.’
The lights were green. Trent hung his tongue out of his mouth and made the turn. The van accelerated on. An average speed. Not conspicuously slow. Not unusually fast. Trent didn’t believe that they’d been spotted. He guessed it helped that the guy was driving a panel van. There was no glass in the back doors so he was having to use his side mirrors, supposing he used them at all. And none of the gang members would be expecting him to be driving a black Golf.
‘Or you can call them,’ Viktor said. ‘You can tell them what we’ve learned..’
Trent shook his head. �
��No police.’
‘But we want them caught, right?’
Trent reached across and snatched his phone. He checked the plate number that Viktor had recorded and then he closed the device and slipped it inside his shirt pocket.
‘These men are dangerous,’ Viktor told him. ‘They could kill us.’
Trent squeezed the steering wheel. Focused on the van. ‘Not if I kill them first.’
* * *
The van left the city on the A7 autoroute. It passed the docks, then the airport. Its speed stayed just north of legal. It made no erratic manoeuvres. No sudden lane changes. There was nothing to suggest that the guy with the watch knew that Trent was following him.
Trent stayed eight car lengths behind. Three vehicles between them. He squeezed closer whenever an exit approached. Dropped back once they passed a turn-off. He was visualising that straining length of elastic again. Imagining it stretching and relaxing. Pulling tight and slackening off. It was the same piece of elastic that had tied him to Jérôme. It bound them still.
‘Do you think he’s alone?’ Viktor asked.
It was the first time he’d spoken in several minutes. He’d been acting like he’d fallen into a daze. But his sulky tone suggested something else. Maybe he was having second thoughts about teaming up with Trent.
Maybe he was right to be thinking that way.
‘I’ve been asking myself the same thing,’ Trent said.
‘And?’
‘And it’s possible there’s another guy up front. Maybe even two.’
‘You really think so?’
Trent rolled out his bottom lip. ‘It’s unlikely. The watch guy was delivering something to the flower seller. Probably some kind of payment. A fee for placing the package in my apartment. Why would he need back-up?’
‘Maybe the gang don’t trust Arnaud?’
‘Goes with the territory. But the watch guy wouldn’t need back-up to pay him in public. And if they thought that showing up carried any kind of risk of being caught, they wouldn’t want a second guy there..’
‘So he’s on his own?’
‘Maybe.’
Viktor glanced across at Trent. ‘We could check. We could overtake and look inside the cab.’
‘Too risky. If we get alongside, he might spot you. He guarded you for close to a year. And he’s seen me before. He could recognise either one of us.’
‘Then drive fast. Keep a couple of lanes over.’
Trent shook his head. ‘It wouldn’t be conclusive. The cab could be empty but there might still be a team of guys in the back of the van. It’s better for us to wait and see where he’s heading.’
Trent leaned to one side and scanned the instrumentation on the dash. The Golf was running smoothly. It was a well-maintained car with no obvious mechanical tics. It had a powerful engine. But it was low on fuel. The indicator was down below the quarter mark. It was one notch off red. They’d been driving for twenty-five minutes already and there was no telling how far the van might go.
Trent reached out a finger and tapped the fuel dial. ‘Do you keep a jerrycan in the boot?’
‘Oh,’ Viktor said. ‘No, I don’t have one.’
Trent was silent.
‘We can stop for fuel,’ Viktor suggested. ‘There’s a service station coming up.’
‘No. We don’t stop until he does.’
Trent gritted his teeth. He tucked his chin into his chest and stared hard at the back of the blue van. The elastic was beginning to stretch. He eased down on the accelerator. Burned some more fuel. There was no way this guy was getting away. He wouldn’t allow it.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later the van indicated and peeled off the autoroute at Cavaillon. It picked up a road that skirted the town centre, then continued northwards.
Trent checked the fuel needle. It had dropped into the red. The Golf was a GTI. Built for speed, not economy. Viktor had told him there was a trip computer that could estimate how many kilometres were left in the tank. But Trent didn’t want to know. It was likely to be bad news, and why burden himself with that?
The guy driving the van never paused at a junction or hesitated at a roundabout. It was clear that he knew exactly where he was going. And he didn’t vary his speed. Didn’t turn back on himself or pull over abruptly. Trent was as certain as he could be that they hadn’t been spotted. He needed to keep things that way.
It was hot inside the Golf. The late afternoon sun was beating through the windscreen and Trent had turned off the air conditioning to conserve fuel. He’d also closed all the windows to minimise any wind drag. The difference it might make was likely to be fractional but Trent was prepared to do anything he could to protect his opportunity to find out where the guy was going. Even if it meant sitting in an airless glass box, smelling the sweaty funk of two men. Even if it meant putting up with Viktor’s complaints about how he was thirsty and feeling nauseous.
Up ahead, the van was indicating again. It slowed and turned into the small village of Le Thor. Trent hit the brakes early and ambled through the junction, allowing the elastic to stretch to its very limit. The village streets were narrow and cobbled. The centre was eerily quiet. The only noise Trent could hear was the judder of the Golf’s tyres over the coarse road surface. There were no vehicles coming the other way. None behind them. If the guy in the van was suspicious, this was the perfect place to test Trent.
The road continued on. Plane trees lined the streets. They passed a café that appeared to be closed and approached an independent petrol station with a pair of oil-streaked pumps on a makeshift forecourt. Trent consulted the fuel gauge. He was tempted to pull over and splash in some petrol. But the shop attached to the garage looked shabby and uncared for. There was no telling how quickly he might be able to pay.
The van braked hard up ahead. Trent did likewise. A woman pushing a kid in a buggy crossed the road. The Golf’s engine idled. The van trembled and shook. Trent swallowed drily. He loosened another button on his shirt. If the guy jumped out of the van and came at them now, Trent didn’t want anything getting in the way of his Beretta.
The woman levered the front of the pushchair up onto the pavement. She smiled and waved her thanks to the van driver and started to walk away.
The van didn’t move.
Trent waited.
Carefully now, he eased the Golf into neutral but kept his foot on the clutch. He checked his mirror. The road behind was empty. He could slam the gearbox into reverse if he needed to.
Viktor was looking across at him. He was pale. Seemed to be holding his breath.
Trent didn’t speak. He offered no reassurance. Several long seconds tripped by.
Then the van rolled forwards and gathered speed. Trent blew a gust of air towards his damp forehead and pursued the van once more. He followed it to a roundabout and then onto a minor country road.
The road was a problem. It was long and flat and straight, raised up on an embankment running between a series of farm fields. There were cereal crops on their left. Sunflowers on their right. Visibility would be excellent from the van. The Golf would be highly noticeable.
Trent eased off the accelerator. He let the van get ahead of him. He pictured the elastic beginning to shear. He didn’t care. It was time to rely on his instincts. They were telling him to back off. He allowed the van to speed away, snapping the elastic cleanly. He fell fifteen car lengths behind. Then twenty. Thirty.
‘What are you doing?’ Viktor asked.
‘Taking a chance.’
‘What if he turns?’
‘We’ll see it.’
The van was growing smaller ahead of them. Sunlight flared off its rear doors. Trent accelerated a little more. He did his best to match the van’s speed and maintain the distance between them. Forty car lengths. Maybe a little more. It felt like a reasonable distance. If the road began to curve or the terrain changed, he could adapt and close the gap very quickly. The GTI was designed to be faster than a panel van. It wouldn�
��t be hard to drive it that way.
They passed fields of green agricultural crops. Fields of acid-yellow rapeseed. Fields of hard, ploughed earth. Fields of fruit bushes growing under opaque plastic polytunnels.
They passed isolated houses, looping telephone wires and ranks of cypress trees.
There was a low rocky ridge off to their left. The road was spearing towards it on an acute angle. A few kilometres more and the ridge was much closer.
Then, all of a sudden, the van braked hard without indicating and swept off the road to the left. The tyres spewed dirt and dust. The van bounced and rocked and shook.
Trent shifted forwards in his seat. He increased his speed, eyes fixed on the point where the van had turned. He took his foot off the accelerator as he got close, ready to stamp on the brake and turn sharply if he needed to.
But he continued on. The van had pulled over onto a scruffy gravel yard outside a complex of four or five nondescript concrete buildings with corrugated roofs. They looked like old, disused farm structures.
The guy with the watch and the tattoos was leaping down out of the van’s cab, slamming his door behind him.
Trent drove by a neighbouring house with a generous but unruly plot of land. There was a discoloured caravan stationed out front, a mangy Alsatian tethered to a clothesline. Trent kept driving until he found a crossroads half a kilometre further on, then swung the Golf around and headed back.
He slowed again as he passed the yard the van had pulled into. He scanned the sagging chicken-wire boundary fence that separated the complex from the tatty property next door. He saw old wooden picnic tables that were sun-warped and buckled. Saw rusted iron waste bins. Saw the scramble of austere concrete buildings.
He saw two things that chilled the blood in his veins.
The first was a dark green Toyota Land Cruiser that had been beached beneath some distant fir trees. It was parked nose in, rear out.
The second was an old wooden sign toppled over against the corner of the windowless outbuilding at the front of the lot. The sign was split and the lettering faded. It was obviously no longer in use, but it was still legible. The word Grottes was visible in faint white paint, accompanied by an aged drawing of a closed hand with a single finger that pointed towards the rear of the yard.
