by Lin Anderson
‘He knew of the connection between you?’
‘I don’t think she ever told him. But it didn’t matter. Chapayev already had me in his grip.’
‘How?’
‘I came here with nothing. I had some of the skills required by Madame Lacroix, but not enough. I had a little money saved because I wanted to open a shop, but I needed more. I met Chapayev at a party. He had money to invest. I took it.’ She paused. ‘I soon found out how many strings were attached.’ She dipped her head to avoid Patrick’s eyes. ‘Then he told me about Angele. How she had left, taking the pearl. If I didn’t help him find her and bring her back …’
‘And you came to me?’
‘He made me come to you.’
‘When I challenged Angele, she denied you were her half-sister,’ Patrick said.
Camille gave a small smile. ‘It’s easy to lie when you think your life depends on it.’
‘Has she been in touch?’
She shook her head.
‘What about Chapayev?’
‘Not since Korskof was set free.’
Which was good news.
‘If Chapayev, or anyone connected with him, makes contact, you should tell Lieutenant Moreaux. He knows you were being blackmailed.’
‘But …’
‘Chapayev has his diamonds. You have your shop. Moreaux will make sure you keep it.’
For the first time he saw what might be joy in her eyes.
‘How can I thank you?’
He thought for a moment. ‘There are two rings in your window. One silver, one gold.’
‘The lovers’ moon and stars.’
‘I suggest you give them to Moreaux as a gift. I’m sure his wife will be pleased.’
Patrick left her then to return to the shop, wishing he could be sure that his plan had in fact worked.
NINETEEN
Arriving next morning at the paved square by the Chapelle de la Misericorde, Patrick found it thick with mourners. He recognized many of the staff from the nearby restaurants, a variety of Suquet residents including Pascal and Preben, Veronique from Le P’tit Zinc and many of the marketeers.
Chevalier looked resplendent in a dark-grey silk suit and red tie; Moreaux was sombre in black; but no one could match Madame Lacroix and her colourful cortege of beautiful young women, there to say goodbye to one of their own.
He and Camille took their place just behind the Hibiscus contingent. Brigitte observed his entry with a sharp eye and bestowed a nod. The coffin standing at the altar was dark ebony, the roses that adorned it blood red. It seemed impossible that it should contain something as beautiful as Marie Elise.
The service was conducted in Latin. Unfamiliar with the workings of any church, Patrick followed Brigitte’s lead, but found himself discomfited by words he didn’t understand and music that brought him no sense of peace.
Afterwards they all filed out into bright May sunshine and Patrick led Camille to the car. The Cimetière du Grand Jas occupied a nine-hectare terraced site just off Avenue de Grasse. He had never buried anyone there, but had visited it when he first came to Cannes, and been amazed at how little it resembled the grey windswept graveyards of his home.
They drove there in silence. He knew Camille was upset and still blaming herself in some way for Marie Elise’s death. He hadn’t revealed the meeting between Marie Elise and Angele on the Heavenly Princess. The one that had probably sealed her fate. Patrick did so now.
When he’d finished, Camille looked round at him.
‘You think Chapayev recorded that conversation?’
‘I’m sure of it. Nothing you could have done would have saved her.’
His words seemed to give Camille comfort. She placed her hand over his for a moment on the steering wheel.
Patrick didn’t approach the graveside, but chose to watch from further up the hill. The Cimetière du Grand Jas was a suitable last resting place for Marie Elise. Stunningly beautiful and classical in form, it overlooked the sparkling blue waters of the bay.
The graveside service was brief. Patrick noted Brigitte’s slight figure in black, Moreaux beside her, the way she raised her veil for one last look before the first shovel of earth was thrown on the ebony coffin.
At this point Patrick turned and walked back to the parked Ferrari to wait for Camille.
The funeral party was adjourning to the Hôtel Splendid for lunch but Patrick had no wish to join them. Camille came to tell him she’d arranged to go there with Chevalier. Patrick was relieved by this. He needed to forget what he had just witnessed, and driving fast and far would help him do that.
He took the A8 westward, running high above the coast, before turning north on a minor road towards the town of Bagnols-en-Forêt. This was one of the areas he liked to walk in, but today he was happier driving, negotiating the empty hillside roads like a race track.
Even now, he knew he didn’t fully understand what had happened. There were still too many questions as yet unanswered. Perhaps they never would be.
As he drove like a maniac, he saw again Marie’s smile as she spoke to the Swedish man in the restaurant. Why had she met him, if he wasn’t a client? Had she sought him out after seeing him on board the Heavenly Princess the night of the launch party? Had she done so to try and discover what, if anything, he knew about Angele?
And what of Moreaux? Who had signalled to Korskof that he, Patrick, would be at the church the night of the fireworks? Did Moreaux do it in order to draw Korskof there, with the intention of arresting him? Or was his intention to pick up Patrick?
He thought again of Chapayev. Relived their moments together below the water and Chapayev’s frantic efforts to hang on to him, at the same time showing his desperation not to give up his precious diamonds. Patrick wondered whether he had made a mistake in not letting Chapayev drown, and taking back the diamonds.
In the past, that’s exactly what he would have done.
Maybe he was growing soft in his retirement. Maybe jobs involving unpaid rent and messy business deals in and around Le Suquet were no longer enough for him. At that point the memory of the gilt-edged invitation returned to mock him.
Patrick hit the accelerator even harder.
The next corner he took close to the edge. The following one even closer. The blood sang in his veins the closer he got to disaster. It was a feeling he recognized and knew he had missed.
Then he heard the sound of blades above him.
The helicopter hung there, black, with the distinctive red logo of Chapayev’s company emblazoned on its side.
He had been right. The game wasn’t over yet.
Patrick tried to remember where the road he was on led to. One thing he did know: it didn’t lead to civilization. Continuing on in this manner was a mistake. He needed to get out of sight, or among people, neither of which was possible the way he was heading.
There had been no pot shots so far, but he had no doubt there would be. If Korskof was up there, he would have his sights trained on the car. Their best solution for the irritant that Patrick had become was to cause an accident which sent him over the edge into the steep valley below. No bullet wounds, no evidence of an attack.
Just a man, crazed by loss, taking a bend too fast.
As though reading his mind, the helicopter dropped lower. Patrick prepared himself for the inevitable. A bullet to the brain, or a bullet to a tyre.
They say you see your life flash before you at such moments. He didn’t see his life; only the dead faces of the two women whose deaths he felt responsible for.
Then he swerved.
The bullet hit the rock wall to the left of the car. The echo of it splintered his hearing for a moment. Now he knew. They would kill him and not care whether it looked like an accident. Men like Chapayev thought they were powerful enough to defy the law. They had done that already in the place of their birth. Why should the South of France be any different? Moreaux had known that and had studiously avoided the Police Nationale wasting reso
urces trying to bring to justice a man who had the power, influence and money to make that almost impossible.
But Patrick had no such thoughts. He owed nothing, and to no one.
He slowed suddenly, the brakes meeting the tyres in a frantic smell of burning rubber. The car skewed, leaving a film of black on the road to witness his abrupt halt. In seconds he was at a standstill, and out of the car.
The helicopter took longer to react to what was happening below.
Patrick used the time to get among the red rocks. If they wanted him, they would have to come and get him.
The helicopter hovered as though trying to scent its prey. Whoever was inside couldn’t see him and wasn’t about to waste bullets on the rocks; instead they decided to take their anger out on the car.
An onslaught of bullets hit the Ferrari, pinging death on the metal work, tearing at the handsome leather. Patrick watched as the deluge reduced the car to a beaten body, like Leon’s when they’d thrown him on to the deck of Les Trois Soeurs.
Patrick swore in French, which was much more satisfying than in English and much more colourful.
Now he knew their plan.
The car was out of action, so they would find somewhere to land the helicopter and come for him on foot. They had the fire power, and he didn’t think Korskof would be alone.
Patrick checked his mobile, but knew before he did so what the result would be. They were in the middle of the Estérel Mountains and there was no signal.
TWENTY
Lieutenant Martin Moreaux watched as Courvoisier’s car took off at high speed, guessing he was heading out of town. The man’s prowess behind the wheel was legendary, as was his liking for speed. It seemed obvious that Courvoisier’s current emotional state demanded he get in the Ferrari and drive as fast as possible.
Moreaux could, of course, prevent this, by sending the traffic cops after him to pull him over, but he didn’t fear for other road users, although he did have some concerns about Courvoisier himself. Their earlier meeting had given Moreaux some cause for thought. The unreported case of the missing black pearl had grown to include the ‘accidental’ death of a diver, who not only worked for Chapayev, but was also implicated in the murder of Marie Clermand. Add to that Brigitte’s dismay at Korskof, yet another employee of Chapayev, being set free, and it had become clear to Moreaux that all his efforts to contain the situation had failed.
Courvoisier had told a number of lies, one of them being that he hadn’t been aboard the gunboat the night Marie had died. Moreaux was aware of this, but had chosen not to follow it up. He didn’t believe Courvoisier to be her killer, plus the anonymous call had been a little convenient. The death of the diver also left some questions unanswered. One being why he was diving there alone in the first place. Moreaux suspected it had a great deal to do with the pearl and Mademoiselle Valette.
Angele Valette was a fine actress, perhaps a little too good. She was also an extremely alluring creature, and was able to make good use of such attributes. Moreaux smiled as he contemplated how even someone of his age and experience had reacted to Mademoiselle Valette’s advances.
He’d now come to the conclusion that she had been staying with the Suchets at Le Dramont, but not for the reason she’d given. That particular bird had now been seen flying about Monaco, sent there by Courvoisier no doubt, to sell either the pearl or, intriguingly, a set of diamonds.
Which is what he suspected this had all been about.
He paused in his thoughts as Brigitte approached, stiff-backed as always, but with her veil replaced to cover her distress. Moreaux felt her sorrow and was moved by it.
‘Where is Courvoisier?’ she asked.
Moreaux explained about his abrupt departure.
She glanced towards the upper reaches of the graveyard near the road.
‘I’m sure I saw Korskof up there.’
Moreaux patted her arm reassuringly. ‘The Heavenly Princess has left port. Korskof will be on it.’
Brigitte lifted her veil so that he could see the anger in her eyes. ‘He’s free to go where he pleases, because you let the bastard go, despite what I told you.’
‘Camille Ager wouldn’t press charges.’
‘Because she was scared of him. Even I could see that.’ Brigitte dropped her veil in disgust.
‘I have to make a call, then I’ll come on to the Splendid,’ Moreaux offered.
Brigitte didn’t acknowledge his response, but instead strode away to rejoin the crowd of mourners moving towards the gate, suggesting Moreaux was definitely in her bad books.
This business with Courvoisier was causing too many problems, he decided, and not only in his public life.
Moreaux removed himself to a quiet spot outside the departing throng. His first move was to try calling Courvoisier, but he got the voicemail service. Either Courvoisier was already high in the hills and therefore out of range, or he wasn’t breaking the law by answering his phone while driving, even if he was exceeding the speed limit.
Moreaux made a second call, this time to the traffic police. He wanted to know where the red Ferrari was and quickly. If Courvoisier had been foolish enough to acquire diamonds Chapayev believed were his, then his life might well be at stake. His third call was to the coastguard with a request to find the exact whereabouts of the Heavenly Princess.
Moreaux ended the call and swore eloquently.
Patrick de Courvoisier was a thorn in his side. One he could well do without.
TWENTY-ONE
Patrick stayed under cover, hoping to hear the beat of the blades retreating. Instead they grew louder and he suddenly understood why. The helicopter had been ordered to land on the road. There was simply nowhere else close by that they could set down. They were taking a chance. The road was one hairpin bend after another. It was remote, but that didn’t mean there were no cars. Farm vehicles and small trucks used it too. If one came round a corner at even a slow pace, it would plough into the helicopter.
Patrick took a look to make sure his guess was right. The helicopter was hovering just above and to the right of the Ferrari, as Korskof and another man dropped to the ground. Both were armed. The second guy looked like the minder who’d taken a potshot at Patrick just before he’d somersaulted overboard with Chapayev. The two men made a dash for the shelter of the rock face as the helicopter shielded them, then it rose and headed west.
Patrick set about calculating the odds he was facing. Firstly, his mobile wasn’t working, but neither would theirs be. On the plus side, he knew these mountains, and they didn’t. The odds stacked against him, however, were substantial. He felt at his waistband automatically, already knowing he wasn’t carrying his weapon. You didn’t take a gun to a funeral – although maybe you should if the deceased had been murdered. So it was two against one, and they had the firepower and were obviously intent on using it, as witnessed by the wreck that had been his car.
That thought made him angry, but it was a cold and calculating anger, which would serve his purpose. He checked out his position. It wasn’t perfect but he did have the advantage of being above them, and with a clear view of the rocks below. The danger would be if one of them managed to circle round unnoticed behind him.
He took a moment to look for any recognizable landmarks. By the speed and timing of his journey, he estimated he was somewhere in the vicinity of the Blavet Gorges, where the rocky riverbed of the Blavet passed alongside sheer cliffs. At the base of the cliff lay the grotto of Mureron, an opening twenty metres deep, created when a chunk of rhyolite rock had collapsed. It wasn’t the only cave in the area: the red rock was riddled with them. The lower slopes were also home to a thick forest of oak trees which could provide excellent cover if only he could reach them.
Decision made, Patrick did the opposite to what was expected. Instead of heading upwards, he began to move back towards the road, while intermittently tossing a pebble in the other direction. He fooled them just long enough to cross the road. As he threw himself over th
e edge he’d earlier courted with the Ferrari, the first bullet skiffed the rock beside him. Patrick kept on going, half-running, half-sliding downwards, while intermittently getting below or behind one of the larger rocks. Bullets were becoming plentiful, but he was in more danger of being hit by a ricochet than by a well-aimed attempt.
Here the odds against him increased, but he was playing for higher stakes. He could already see the trees. Once among them, he had a chance. That thought kept him careering downwards, sending intermittent showers of red stones before him, trusting to luck that he wouldn’t break a leg before reaching his destination.
Metres from the first trees, he broke into a straight run. Down here out of the sun, the shadows were long, the visibility poor. He might just make it.
He didn’t.
The shot was perfectly aimed to bring him down. His left leg gave way and he crumpled.
A voice barked in Russian. ‘If you try to get up, I’ll shoot the right one as well.’
Patrick stayed exactly where he was. Had Korskof been alone, he might have tried to bring him down. Once on the ground, the odds would have been more evenly matched. But there were two of them. Patrick decided to conserve his strength.
It seemed the intention had not been to kill, but to capture him.
A foot caught him in the groin and flipped him over and Patrick was staring up into Korskof’s face. The Russian was sweating like a pig, his bulk more suited to beating his opponents to a pulp than chasing them through the Estérel Mountains. The other guy looked as nervous as he had been on the yacht. His eyes kept darting about, as though he expected help for Patrick to appear miraculously from behind a rock.
‘Now you get up,’ Korskof barked.
