by John Niven
‘Oh. My. God,’ Susan said.
The suite was enormous. Over one thousand square feet easily, with glass doors leading onto a balcony running all the way along one wall, overlooking the Croisette and the beach seven floors below. Beats Wroxham on a wet Wednesday, Susan thought.
‘Cheers, my lovely,’ Ethel was saying to the bellboy as she slapped a hundred-euro note into his hand.
‘Anything you need, ladies, just call.’
‘Oh, I love going first class,’ Ethel said. ‘No one messes with you.’
‘It’s like a film …’ Jill whispered.
‘Cocktail?’ Julie said, turning round from the fully stocked wet bar at the far end of the room.
‘Maybe later,’ Susan said. ‘There’s something I thought we might do first …’
‘What?’ Vanessa said.
‘Well, we’re not short of a bob or two and we’ve been wearing these bloody clothes for nearly three days now …’
She and Julie looked at each other for a moment before – in chorus, like they had been doing since they were teenagers, for nearly fifty years now – they both trilled ‘SHOPPING!’
FORTY-EIGHT
WESLEY SAT IN the passenger seat, moving his mobile phone around, trying to get a signal, trying to reactivate the satnav app he’d downloaded. It was pitch dark outside now, the only light coming from the tiny screen. He glanced back up the path towards the tiny hotel. The sarge was taking his time. Probably working his winning way with the locals with his aggressive blend of English and commonplace French. It was almost touching in a way that, despite repeated evidence to the contrary, the sarge never lost his faith in the concept that repeatedly shouting the same phrase in English, gradually increasing the volume and the level of gesticulation as you went, would eventually result in some sort of osmotic translation from English into French occurring. That the listener’s face would suddenly light up in recognition as they said, ‘AH! Yes, of course. Here is the thing you asked for, kind sir.’
How had they got so lost? They’d taken the turning the device had told them to take off the E15, heading east, supposedly in the direction of Cannes, now here they were: somewhere on a B-road in Aix-en-Provence, past midnight, both of them absolutely shattered and still miles from Cannes. This was the fourth hotel they’d tried. Summer. Height of the tourist season.
Wesley heard a gate slamming and looked up to see Boscombe coming through the night into the headlights of the car, sourly frugging his head from side to side, gesturing downwards with his left thumb. Shit.
‘Full,’ he said flatly as he crumped down into the passenger seat of the tiny car, before adding, inevitably, ‘fucking collaborators.’
‘Bollocks,’ Wesley said. ‘What now?’
Boscombe yawned and looked around at the dark hedgerows, the night sky. He reached up, turned the interior light out and began the process of cranking his seat back into as close to the horizontal position as it would go. He turned onto his side, his back to Wesley, and pulled his mac tighter around him. ‘Night, Wesley,’ he said.
Christ, Wesley thought. Somewhere off in the distance an owl hooted mournfully – the saddest sound. The saddest sound for a moment or so at any rate, until Wesley sensed Boscombe’s body stiffening in the dark as he raised himself very slightly before emitting a shrill, high-pitched fart directly at Wesley.
‘Fucking hell …’
‘Sorry,’ Boscombe said sleepily. There was not one trace element of sincerity in his voice.
Now came the moment of terror – of seeing the mushroom cloud on the horizon, but being incapable of comprehending the damage the blast wave will do when it finally reaches you. Four seconds later the true horror began as the vaporous evidence of his boss’s recent diet began to fill the scant few feet of cubic space: city rubbish heaps, festering landfill, cabbage that had been boiled for days in sour milk, corpses.
‘Oh fuck me, fuck me, fuck me …’ Wesley gagged as he wound his window down and began craning his neck for relief.What the fuck had he been eating? Actually Wesley knew very well what he’d been eating – pies, sausages, burgers, hotpots, stews, cheap steaks, bacon sarnies: the all beige diet, the spackled abattoir of his boss’s bowels. But it actually smelt worse than all that, like his food intake consisted solely of neat sulphur.
‘Jesus Christ, Sarge …’
But Boscombe was already fast asleep.
FORTY-NINE
WHAT A DAY it had been, Ethel thought, propping herself up on the mass of thick pillows. Jill was snoring lightly in her bed, far away on the other side of the enormous bedroom. They must have spent a fortune in those shops – Chanel, Versace, Gucci, Hermès. They’d bought things for pleasure – clothes, shoes and bags – and some things that would be essential for phase two of the plan: a large new make-up kit for Susan, a very loose-fitting summer suit cut for the larger gentleman, and some wigs. Julie also picked up two cheap mobile phones in case ‘we need to split up’. ‘Burners’ she’d called them. She watched too much detective stuff on TV Susan thought. Ethel looked down at the side of her bed where her new Prada slippers nestled. Julie had insisted she had them. At one point Susan had started to get a bit uncomfortable about all the spending, making the point that if they were caught then giving back as much of the money as possible would help their case, but in the end she was overruled. Then on to dinner at a very fashionable restaurant on the Croisette, which the hotel manager had arranged for them, doubtless at the urging of Monsieur Ferrat who had also arranged for a magnum of iced champagne to be on their table when they sat down. My goodness they’d put it away. Even Jill was drinking a bit now, which you never saw her do back home in Dorset. (Dorset! How far away and dreary the very name sounded now.)
Ethel looked over to the huge velvet curtains covering the window and tried to guess the time of morning by the strength of the crack of light coming between them. It was weak and pale – maybe between five and six?
She wasn’t even tired, hadn’t even the trace of a hangover, even though she’d put away a useful train of brandies after the meal, back here, sitting out on the terrace after the others had gone to bed. This was one of the few upsides of age, Ethel often thought, the ability to function perfectly well on four – or even three – hours of sleep. As long as she got her afternoon nap in, which she was planning to do today on the drive to Marseilles. Anyway, she wasn’t going back to sleep right now, that much was clear. Coffee. There was a machine in the little kitchenette they had, off the main living area. Give that a go. If the machine wouldn’t play ball she could either call room service or go down to the restaurant if it wasn’t too early. She swung her legs out of the bed and snuggled her toes into the luxuriant lining of the new slippers. She pulled her wheelchair as close to the bed as she could and – with great effort – hauled herself into it. Oof. Bastard knees, riddled with gout. Still, what were you going to do? Live on water and kale? Not in this bloody lifetime. She glanced at the clock by her bedside – yep, 5.45 a.m.
Ethel came trundling out of the bedroom into the hallway, softly closing the door behind her so as not to wake Jill, and rolled straight into young Vanessa.
‘Oh!’ Ethel said. ‘You’re up ear—’
Then she took it in. Vanessa was fully dressed, with her bag hooked over her shoulder and a guilty expression on her face. ‘Well,’ Ethel said. ‘I see.’
‘Ethel, I …’
‘I’m not much on big goodbyes myself, Vanessa.’
Vanessa looked at the floor and pushed a strand of hair out of her face. She looked incredibly young. ‘Say goodbye to the others for me, Ethel.’
Ethel nodded. ‘Off to your big dancing audition, are you?’
‘Oui.’
‘Good luck to you, love. I’ll just say this: in my experience there’s two kinds of dancing gigs. There’s dancing A, the kind that involves, you know …’ Ethel started miming a sort of disco hand-jive while she sang, ‘I love the night life, I love to boogie, on the disco ah-hhh … a
ctual dancing. Then there’s dancing B. Which is the kind that tends to involve having a stranger’s willy in your mouth.’
Vanessa frowned. ‘Willy? I – oh.’ The penny dropped. ‘Look, I can handle myself, you know?’
‘I’m sure you can, darling,’ Ethel said, trundling closer to her. ‘But remember, no matter what anyone tells you, or what you tell yourself, it takes something away from you. And you never get it back.’
Vanessa met Ethel’s gaze.
‘Do you understand?’ Ethel said gently. Looking into her eyes Vanessa could see it all there, shining softly, many, many years of it, of moments in hotel rooms and apartments and cars. Experience.
‘I understand,’ Vanessa said, nodding.
‘Good girl, here …’ Ethel was holding out a thick roll of euros. Vanessa shook her head. ‘Here …’ Ethel said, stuffing the notes into the pocket of her denim jacket. ‘Be one less thing on my conscience, OK?’
‘Thank you, Ethel.’ The girl leaned down and kissed her. She really was something, Ethel thought. So beautiful. Yes, tough times ahead for this one and no mistaking.
Ethel watched her leave and rolled on down the hall, towards that coffee machine.
Vanessa came down the steps of the Carlton, smiled shyly at the uniformed doorman who tipped his hat to her, and turned right onto the Croisette, which was almost deserted in the dawn, apart from two men who were standing on the pavement beside their tiny Citroën car. They were discussing something in English, she recognised the word ‘bollocks’, from hearing Ethel say it. Tourists.
Vanessa turned up a side street and started heading away from the sea and into the town of Cannes, towards the address her friend had given her. It really wasn’t far.
‘Bollocks,’ Boscombe said again, casting a glance at the departing back of the young girl before turning back to survey the empty Croisette and the beach beyond it. ‘Blackpool with bloody palm trees, Wesley.’
‘Don’t go much on the finer things, do we, Sarge?’
‘Right, here’s the plan. We’re about in the middle. I’ll go to the far end up there –’ Boscombe pointed up the street – ‘you go to the other end. We’ll check all the hotels and meet back here in a couple of hours. In front of that one.’ He pointed to the Carlton.
‘How about a bit of breakfast first?’ Wesley asked. ‘I’m bloody starved.’
‘There’s half that pasty thing left in the glovebox if you fancy it.’ Wesley shuddered. ‘Come on, lad. Let’s get on with it. We’re here to work. It’s not some gourmet trip at the taxpayers’ expense, you know.’
Chance would be a fine thing, Wesley thought.
FIFTY
‘FOR GOD’S SAKE, Ethel! Why didn’t you stop her?’
‘Julie, love,’ Ethel tried gently.
‘God knows what kind of people she’s getting involved with!’
‘You can’t force people to –’ Ethel tried again.
‘She’s only a bloody kid!’
Jill and Susan said nothing, letting it run its course. Julie was as angry as Susan had ever seen her. ‘I mean “dancing”? Jesus, Ethel …’
‘And what were you like when you were her age, eh? Exactly the same, I’ll bet.’ Ethel was getting angry now too. ‘The same as we all were – you thought you knew it all. She’s got to make her own bloody mistakes.’
Julie turned on her heel and clicked off along the marble floor towards her bedroom. They heard the heavy door slam shut. ‘Fucking hell,’ Ethel said.
‘Language,’ Jill countered automatically, without energy, as Ethel went to wheel along the hallway after Julie.
‘No, Ethel,’ Susan said. ‘Just leave her, love.’
‘What’s all that about?’ Ethel said.
‘It’s …’ Susan thought, remembering back nearly thirty years, holding Julie’s hand in that sad, terrible room, both of them weeping as Julie said, ‘Well, that’s that,’ over and over again. ‘Nothing, Ethel.’ Susan grabbed her towel. ‘Just leave it for now. Come on, let’s go down and have a quick swim before we get back on the road, eh?’
Seven floors below them and about half a mile to the west, Boscombe was thrusting his photographs at another bewildered concierge. At the same moment, approximately half a mile to the east, Wesley was coming out of the fourth successive hotel where he had met with confusion and then blank looks. He came down the steps onto a little terrace and, dear God, that smell, that heavenly smell. What was th …
Wesley found he was overlooking the restaurant.
Under pale ivory umbrellas wealthy-looking holidaymakers were breakfasting and Wesley took it in via a series of close-ups, moving from table to table to the buffet itself: scrambled eggs and coffee, pitchers of ruby-orange juice with beads of iced water running down their sides, crisply fried slivers of bacon, perfectly golden omelettes, a whole side of poached salmon, bowls of sliced fresh fruit on ice: papaya and watermelon and strawberries and kiwi fruit.
Wesley found that saliva was cascading into his mouth and, before he quite knew what he was doing, he was pulling out a chair at an empty table for two, while signalling to a waiter. Fuck it, there was nothing that couldn’t wait half an hour. If Boscombe wanted to alternately play the martyr and then stuff his face with processed meat products that was his lookout. Oooh, Wesley thought, watching a waiter carrying a silver tray with two brimming champagne flutes on it. I might even have one of them Mimosas.
Julie was lying on the bed, crying. The thought came: this is stupid. When had she last got like this over something that had happened so long ago? Only when she was really drunk, late at night. Ethel was right of course, she knew that. But, still, she’d thought she might be able to … oh God knows. It had been so small, the tiny thing. She reached for a fresh tissue, choking back a sob in her chest, feeling that salty expansion in her ribcage, when she heard a soft knocking at the door and then it was being pushed open and Vanessa was in the room, crying too, and Julie was coming up from the bed and folding her in her arms and they were crying together, neither one knowing why the other was crying, until Julie pulled her hair out of Vanessa’s hair and wiped the tears from her eyes.
‘Vanessa … shh … what’s wrong? What happened?’
Vanessa looked at her and wailed, ‘It was dancing B!’
Boscombe looked at his watch. Fucking lazy, slow-arsed Wesley. Taking the piss. Here he was, in front of the Carlton, bang on time, and where was laughing boy? Nowhere. He’d give him a few minutes.
He sat on the wall in front of the great white building and took out his cigarettes. He lit one and stared at the sparkling water across the street, the sun already high and hot at 9 a.m. It was famous for something, this hotel. Wesley had mentioned it in the car. What was it? Oh, yeah. Elton John. The video for one of his songs, ‘I’m Not Standing’ or something, was filmed here. Wesley – mine of useless bloody information that lad was.
‘It’s OK, love. It’s fine,’ Julie said, savouring the warmth and smell of the child, ‘it’ll all be fine. Not quite what you expected, eh?’ She felt Vanessa shaking her head fiercely into her chest.
‘I lied to you, Julie,’ Vanessa said, her voice coming muffled from somewhere south of Julie’s chin.
‘Oh yeah?’ Julie said. ‘How so?’
‘I’m only fifteen.’
‘Ah. I see. Oh well. Never mind, darling.’
Vanessa was getting her breathing under control now, pulling away from her, wiping tears and wet hair from her face. Julie handed her a fresh tissue and, as she took it, Vanessa seemed to notice Julie’s own red eyes and streaked make-up for the first time.
‘Why were you crying?’ Vanessa asked her.
‘Oh, that,’ Julie said. ‘Well. I was just thinking about something that happened a long time ago.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Honestly. Anyway, what are your plans now?’
Vanessa shrugged and laughed.
‘Fair enough,’ Julie said. ‘Tell you what, let’s grab our swimming co
stumes and go and join the others down at the pool. We can have a chat and decide what to do from there, eh?’ Julie clapped her hands together and got up from the bed, crossing over to the wardrobe.
‘Oh, Julie?’ Vanessa said.
‘Mmmm?’
‘What do you do for a living? You know, the thing you lied to me about?’
‘Oh. That. Right. OK.’ Julie thought for a second, biting her lip. ‘Well, here’s the thing …’
Bugger it. Check this one and then find soft lad.
Boscombe flicked his cigarette away and walked up the hot steps and into the huge, cool lobby. Fucking hell. How the other half live. He looked around at the knots of wealthy holidaymakers, sitting chatting, strolling in and out, and motioned to one of the staff to come to him. The concierge looked at Boscombe oddly, momentarily thrown by his cheap, sweat-soaked clothes and florid, malnourished complexion. The thought le vagabond? briefly crossed his mind and he approached Boscombe with some caution.
‘Monsieur?’ the concierge said.
‘Can I speak to the manager please?’ Boscombe said.
The concierge looked him up and down again. ‘Per-aps I can help?’
Boscombe sighed as he produced his identification for the umpteenth time that morning. The act of pulling it from his inside pocket provided an uncomfortable reminder that there was what felt like a paving stone lodged in his bowels. How long had it been since he … before they got the plane over? No, surely not? That was two days ago. ‘Just get the manager,’ he said, flopping the CID badge out. The cheeky beggar actually took the ID from Boscombe and looked at it thoroughly.
‘English police?’ he said.
‘Oui,’ Boscombe said sarcastically.
The concierge continued to scrutinise the ID. Finally, inevitably, Boscombe’s paper-thin patience burned through. ‘Look, pal,’ he said. ‘I’m here on official police business. I have a letter of cooperation from your government and I need to see your register of guests right now. Comprende?’
The concierge stared Boscombe down, completely unruffled. Here was someone used to dealing with hung-over studio moguls and oligarchs in a hurry. A pissant policeman was nothing and the instant suspicion he’d had about Boscombe had hardened in a matter of moments into a fairly robust dislike. ‘May I see it?’ he said.
