Then He Was Gone

by Stephen Edger

  She placed her hand on his. ‘This wasn’t your fault, Antoine.’

  ‘I could have prevented them leaving. I feel responsible, and I cannot rest until I help you locate the boy. Please, I know you do not know me, but, I want to help. I need to help.’

  ‘Then who am I to turn down your help? What did you have in mind?’

  He reached down to his bag, and pulled out a roll of paper. He cleared the cutlery to one side, and unrolled a map of northern France.

  TWELVE

  He knows something is wrong the moment he pulls up at the rickety farmhouse. He is expecting to see a plume of smoke emanating from the chimney pot, but the air above the slate roof is cold and clear. The display inside the car tells him it is only four degrees outside. It is unlikely that she won’t have kept a fire burning all night.

  He opens the long wooden gate, before returning to the car and crawling along the stony track. He parks, and stares at the property. The Mercedes is nowhere in sight. He opens the glove box and reaches for the Glock 17. He ejects the 9mm magazine, and checks the rounds before reloading and pulling back the slide. The polymer frame is cold between his fingers.

  He tightens his grip on the gun, and quietly slides out of the car. The cold air on his face is a welcome shock, and stimulates the adrenal glands. He keeps low and edges towards the farmhouse. He inches along the brickwork, and turns towards the old wooden door. He leans against the oak, but it is stuck firm. She has the only set of keys. He remains low, as he creeps along to the back of the property. He straightens to peer through the single pane window. There is no movement inside. He charges the backdoor with his shoulder. The weathered frame splinters as the door flies open. He dives in and instinctively drops to one knee, training the gun around the room. He closes his eyes and listens for any hint of disturbance. Behind him, the broken door creaks on its hinges, but there is no other sound. If she is here, she would have been on him in seconds. He rests a chair against the broken door, to stop anyone trying to follow him through.

  The kitchen looks as he left it. The granite-coloured counter is clear, save for an unplugged red kettle. He checks the cupboards one-by-one, but they are bare.

  Where is she?

  Karen should have arrived by ten last night. She had supplies in the boot of the Mercedes: bread, milk, and cheese. Something is definitely wrong.

  He leaves the kitchen and heads into the hallway. He checks the lounge and dining room, before taking the stairs two at a time. Neither bed has been slept in.

  He slumps down on the double bed. There can only be one explanation: she’s been rumbled.

  But there was no mention on the news of a woman being detained at the ferry port in Calais or Dover. He unlocks his phone and loads up an internet search engine. It takes a minute to connect. The mobile signal in this part of the county is poor. The page finally loads and he searches for the terms “boy”, “abduction”, “Calais”, and “Mercedes”. He checks page after page, for any reference of the red-haired woman being arrested, but there is none.

  He is pacing the room when he hears the sound of gravel crunching beneath tyres. He looks out through the net curtain, as the green Mercedes approaches. Keeping his weapon low, he descends the stairs, and is waiting at the front door, when she unlocks it.

  He doesn’t wait for her to greet him. ‘Where have you been?’

  Her eyes are on the gun. ‘There was a deviation in the plan. Let me come in, and I’ll explain it to you.’

  He allows her to pass, and surveys the horizon before closing the door and following her into the living room. ‘Where were you last night? I can see the beds haven’t been slept in.’

  ‘What’s the Glock for? Are you expecting trouble?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘You’re being paranoid.’

  ‘Am I? How do I know I can trust you?’

  ‘You can’t, but that doesn’t mean you need to threaten me with your firearm. Put it away and we’ll talk.’

  He considers her for a moment, before forcing the gun into the back of his trousers. ‘Start talking. What happened at the port?’

  ‘I had to catch a later boat. They were checking all the vehicles.’

  ‘How did you make it through?’

  ‘I was careful.’

  ‘Did they find him? Is that why you’re late? No, that wouldn’t make sense; they’d have detained you. How did you get through?’

  ‘I think you should sit down first.’

  ‘Why? Why do I need to sit down? Wait, shouldn’t you go and get the boy? That tranquiliser will have worn off by now.’

  ‘Sit down.’

  ‘No. If you have something to tell me, spit it out.’

  ‘There was a change of plan. The boy isn’t here.’

  He draws the gun before she finishes speaking, pressing it firmly against her forehead. ‘You say that again.’

  ‘Calm down. The boy isn’t here, but he’s safe.’

  ‘Fuck you. Where is he?’

  ‘I told you: somewhere safe.’

  ‘No, that wasn’t the deal. He was supposed to be here.’

  ‘Don’t be foolish. It is too late to turn back.’

  He lowers the gun, and turns away.

  I can’t believe she’s double-crossed me. They think they can control me? They can think again.

  He swings his arm around and grabs her by the throat, driving her back against the wall. Her feet are almost off the floor as he pushes her chin up. ‘You tell me where he is.’

  She opens her mouth, but she can’t catch her breath.

  ‘Where the fuck is he? You want to die? I’ll kill you now if you don’t tell me where he is.’

  Her eyes are beginning to water, as her mouth desperately tries to suck in breath. Her cheeks are red now, and it won’t be long until her oxygen-deprived mind shuts down and she passes out.

  He presses harder. ‘Tell me where the fuck he is!’

  She stops gasping, and concentrates on what she needs to say. ‘You…will…never…see…him…again.’

  He grinds his teeth, as he continues to squeeze, and as her eyes begin to roll, he releases his grip. She crumples to the floor, gasping heavily. He points the Glock at her. It would be so easy to squeeze the trigger, and end her for the betrayal. He pictures her head exploding against the pale pink walls. If he is going to kill her, this is the moment. He won’t get a second chance.

  He lowers the gun.

  She is clutching her throat, as she pulls herself up on the sofa. She is hoarse as she speaks. ‘You were hired to do a job, and that is what you’re going to do. Go and put the kettle on: we have work to do.’

  THIRTEEN

  The unrolled map was held in place by the cruet set, Antoine’s mug of coffee, and the small jug of milk. He had drawn a big circle around the reference point for Cité Europe, and around the long-term car park where the van had been abandoned.

  He ran his finger between the two points. ‘We know that the van left Cité Europe at 14:48, and we know that it arrived at the port in Dunkerque at 15:34. The journey from the centre commercial is thirty-six minutes direct, according to the internet, which leaves ten minutes where he could have stopped and unloaded the boy.’

  Becky studied the map. ‘That’s assuming he stuck to the main road.’

  ‘Oui, but there was no reason for him to travel on quieter roads. At the time, we didn’t know where the boy was. When the van arrived in Dunkerque, we had only just called my brother.’

  ‘The A16 autoroute runs the whole way to Dunkirk?’

  ‘Oui.’

  ‘He may have left Noah somewhere in Dunkirk, right?’

  ‘C’est possible, but he could also have stopped en route.’

  Becky liked that his English was interspersed with the occasional French word. She imagined English people were just as guilty of the slip when trying to communicate in French. ‘That’s a big stretch of road. He could be anywhere.’

  ‘I disagree. Most of the na
mes you see on the map, places like Offekerque and Saint-Folquin are little villages. There are farms and houses, but little else. The people who live in these villages, they are…uh, what’s the English expression…curtain twitchers? Is that how you say?’

  ‘You mean they’re nosy? They gossip.’

  ‘Ah, oui. Gossip: that is the word. These people they know everybody who lives in the village. If a stranger arrived, they would ask a lot of questions, and if they saw the stranger with a child, then I think someone would have reported it by now.’

  ‘So, what are you saying? You think Noah is in Dunkirk?’

  ‘Maybe. I think he could be in one of three places. He could still be somewhere in Calais, or Dunkerque, or maybe, here.’

  Becky looked at where he was pointing. ‘Gravelines?’

  ‘It is pronounced Grav-e-leen.’

  ‘Sorry. What is at Gravelines?’

  ‘It is a town, almost halfway between Calais and Dunkerque. It is very beautiful, with two beaches, lots of bars and shops. It has a unique design. From the air, it is shaped like a star, and it is possible to hire a boat and sail the whole way around the town through canals.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of it before.’

  ‘It is not very well known by English tourists, but it is popular with other Europeans. A stranger with a child would not stand out as much. The gendarmes are showing the boy’s picture around Calais, so there is not a lot we can do here. Perhaps we could drive to Dunkerque, via Gravelines, and show his picture, to see if anyone has seen him or the van. What do you think?’

  ‘It sounds better than sitting around waiting for the phone to ring. Are you sure you don’t mind driving us?’

  ‘As I said, you would honour me, if you allow me to help.’

  Becky finished her fruit salad, and wrapped the croissants in a paper napkin. She told Antoine she would fetch Julia and meet him at his car. Julia was staring out of the bedroom window when Becky arrived. She didn’t look round as the door opened.

  ‘Julia, I assume you haven’t heard from Durand yet?’

  Julia didn’t answer, but continued to stare out of the window. She jumped, as Becky touched her shoulder. ‘Bex, you startled me. How was breakfast?’

  ‘Surprisingly healthy by my usual standards. There wasn’t a Twix in sight.’

  Julia smiled to acknowledge her friend’s effort to lighten the atmosphere.

  ‘I brought you back a croissant to eat.’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘You need to keep your strength up. I will force feed you if I have to. I may not look strong, but I reckon I could pummel your stick-thin frame. Don’t test me.’

  Julia unwrapped the croissant, and picked at the pastry. ‘I haven’t heard from Durand yet. I suppose no news is good news, right? I mean, at least they haven’t found…’ She couldn’t finish the sentence.

  ‘I saw Antoine at breakfast. He was telling me about this town between here and Dunkirk that he thinks we should drive to. By his calculations, the person who took Noah only had ten minutes to get him out of the van and to change the plates. He wants to drive us to Dunkirk via this town and show Noah’s picture around.’

  ‘I don’t want to go anywhere. I need to stay by the phone in case Durand calls.’

  ‘I appreciate that, but he has our mobile numbers. There is nothing we can do to help by staying here.’

  ‘I want to go back to the shopping centre. Maybe someone saw something and will come forward. Maybe one of the shop assistants recognised the man or something.’

  ‘Cité Europe is closed today. I hadn’t realised but most places in France are closed on a Sunday. I think we should go with Antoine. It can’t hurt. It would probably do you some good to get some fresh air as well. If you stay in this room, you’ll just keep reliving the nightmare. Besides, Dunkirk is only half an hour up the road, so if Durand does find something out, we won’t be far away. What do you say? Antoine’s waiting for us in his car.’

  ‘Okay. If you think it will help.’

  Becky threw her friend a coat, and headed out of the door. Antoine was finishing a cigarette as they reached his Renault Clio. Julia climbed into the backseat, leaving Becky to ride shotgun.

  Twenty minutes later, and with the sun peeking through October cloud, they arrived at Gravelines. Antoine informed them that the Sunday market was held in the resort of Petit-Fort-Philippe. As the market was only held on Sundays and Fridays, it was their best chance of finding locals to show their images to.

  They parked in the centre of town, across from the town hall. Becky could see why Antoine had spoken so fondly of the area. With artisan shops lining the streets either side of the car park, it was the kind of place she could easily spend a relaxing day. Antoine led the way through the town centre, and along the pedestrianised roads in the direction of the market. It was a relief having him take command.

  The market wasn’t what Becky had expected. There were twelve stalls, if that, half of which were selling fish or baguettes, and the remainder offered bespoke jewellery, rolls of fabric, or shoes. Antoine approached the first fish stall and spoke with the merchant. Becky watched as Antoine showed the photographs, but she didn’t need a translator to interpret the man’s headshake. Undeterred, Antoine moved to the second stall and repeated his speech, but the response was the same.

  Becky found a photo of Noah on her phone and wandered over to an old woman pushing a colourful shopping trolley. ‘Excuse me, do you speak English?’

  The woman stared blankly back at her.

  Becky showed her the phone. ‘I’m looking for this boy. Have you seen him? He’s about this tall, and he might have been here yesterday.’

  The woman waved her hand, and dragged her shopping trolley away.

  Becky tried the approach again with a man who was leaning against a lamppost, staring at his phone. He studied the image, but before he could answer, Becky heard her name being called. She looked over at Antoine who was shouting and gesticulating behind her. She turned and just caught a glimpse of Julia disappearing behind a building, leaving a small cloud of dust in her wake.

  Becky tore off after her friend, wondering exactly what could have caused her to bolt. She made it around the corner, but Julia was nowhere in sight. Becky continued along the narrow road, until she found a turn to the left. She headed down it and then turned right at the end. This stretch of road was longer and she could see Julia fifty or so yards ahead of her. Panting, and with her handbag swinging wildly at her side, Becky tried to make up ground on her friend, calling out Julia’s name as she ran.

  Julia stopped at the end of the road, and sucked in air, as she waited for Becky to catch up.

  ‘Where are you running to?’ Becky panted.

  ‘I saw Noah.’

  ‘You what? Where?’

  ‘He was in a car. A Peugeot I think. It went up here.’

  ‘You saw him? Who was driving the car?’

  ‘I only saw Noah by chance. He was staring back at me through the rear window. I couldn’t see the driver.’

  ‘Where are they now?’

  ‘This road is a dead-end, and they haven’t come out yet. Come on.’

  Julia grabbed Becky’s hand and yanked her into the small cul-de-sac. A grubby, white Peugeot 307 was parked in the far corner, with its boot open. Becky wished she’d waited for Antoine to follow her, but she didn’t have time to worry about that now. They approached the car on tiptoes. Becky looked in through the rear window, but Noah wasn’t on the back seat anymore.

  A man appeared from a house nearby, and gave them a curious look. ‘Bonjour?’

  Julia lunged towards him. ‘Where is my son? What have you done with Noah?’

  FOURTEEN

  The Peugeot’s owner was in his early forties, with a shaved head and a large belly bursting through his football shirt. ‘Your son? I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

  The scouse accent stopped Julia in her tracks. ‘Where is the boy I saw in your car
?’

  ‘That’s none of your business, pet.’

  ‘Where is my son? Is he inside? Have you locked him in a room inside?’

  ‘You’re off yer trolley, luv.’

  ‘I want to look inside your house. Now!’

  Becky wrapped her arms around Julia’s shoulders and smoothly pulled her friend away from the bewildered man. ‘You’re English. That makes things easier. My friend says she saw a child in your car as you drove from the market. Was there a boy travelling with you?’

  He gave them a quizzical look. ‘Is this some kind of wind-up? Are Ant and Dec going to suddenly pop out from behind a bin or something?’

  ‘No, this isn’t a joke. I’m sorry, my friend’s son was taken yesterday, and -’

  He snapped his fingers. ‘You’re what the Alerte-Enlèvement is about. Oh my, I’m so sorry. We heard about it on the news last night. Have they not found him yet then? Well, I suppose obviously not, or you wouldn’t be here now, would you? Will you come in for a cup of tea?’

  ‘That’s not necessary. Just let us see the boy, and we’ll be on our way.’

  A woman peered out from the doorway. ‘Bobby? What’s going on?’

  He turned to acknowledge his wife. ‘It’s okay, pet. These two are the women whose son was snatched from the shopping centre in Calais yesterday.’

  The woman, in an apron and with flour splashed across her face, joined her husband, taking his hand protectively. ‘You must be fraught with worry. Have the police not located the lad yet?’

  Becky shook her head. ‘Not yet. We came here to show his picture around in case anybody has seen him.’ Becky passed them her phone with the photograph of Noah.

  They looked at the picture before the man passed it back to her. ‘Sorry, pet, we haven’t seen him.’

  ‘I want to look inside your house,’ Julia repeated. ‘I saw Noah in your car. Are you going to let me in, or do I need to call the police?’