The Predators

by Brian Freemantle

  Félicité stretched towards the screen, feeling the sensation return. It was a reasonable impression, she conceded. But not good enough for a positive identification. She’d been made too thin-faced and her nose was too pronounced and elongated, as if it dominated her face, which in reality it didn’t. And the graphic showed her hair pinned right to left, which was opposite to the way she wore it. Henri Cool was made to look much too heavy and again the nose was too pronounced. On the right hand side of each graphic the physical description was printed, making them both much too tall. Pedantically Poncellet recited every statistic.

  ‘It’s you!’ whispered Smet breathily. ‘It’s definitely you and Henri!’

  ‘No it’s not,’ snapped the woman brusquely. ‘There’s a resemblance, nothing more. Certainly insufficient to bring anyone knocking on my door. Henri’s either. You’re recognizing us because you know it’s us. That’s altogether different. And the printed description is too vague, as well.’ Abruptly she felt deflated, disappointed. Trying to bring back the feeling she said: ‘See the power we’ve got. How we’re making them beg and plead?’

  ‘What are we going to do now?’

  ‘You mean what am I going to do now?’

  ‘Yes,’ mumbled the lawyer. ‘You.’

  ‘I’m in no hurry,’ said Félicité. ‘I like a worldwide stage. We’ll change our approach when I feel like it, not because James McBride wants us to.’

  ‘Let’s get it over with,’ the man implored.

  Félicité ignored him. ‘You can write the next message,’ she decided. ‘Make it better than Michel’s: another rhyme, maybe.’

  ‘I’m doing too much as it is,’ Smet argued. ‘Let someone else do it.’

  ‘I want you to do it,’ insisted Félicité, ending the protest. She paused. ‘It was a pity there wasn’t time to get to Antwerp and watch the broadcast with Mary: let her see how desperately dependent her big important papa is upon us …’

  The telephone jarred into the room, interrupting her. Smet, his nerves stretched, noticeably jumped. Félicité said: ‘It’ll be one of the others, shitting himself like you.’

  The expectant smile with which she answered the telephone faded almost at once. It was a very short conversation, with Félicité constantly interrupting. As she replaced the receiver she said vehemently: ‘Damn Charles Mehre!’

  ‘What is it?’ demanded Smet, in fresh alarm.

  ‘He’s killed,’ said Félicité shortly.

  A television had been installed in the largest of their allocated rooms and they watched McBride’s appeal in silence. When the programme finished Claudine said: ‘I wish I’d had time to brief Poncellet: he exaggerated far too much. But McBride was better than I expected: caught exactly the right note. Even Hillary saying nothing but looking like she did fitted what I wanted, a couple totally at the mercy of those who’ve got their child. They even held hands as I asked them, which they didn’t want to do.’

  ‘Can you imagine what it’s like!’ said Volker sympathetically.

  ‘Maybe it’s not enough to reassure them – I might be interpreting it wrongly – but I think Mary’s still alive,’ announced Blake quietly.

  Claudine and Volker looked at him, waiting.

  ‘I thought I’d check the school again: see if anyone had remembered anything, after all the publicity,’ said Blake. ‘It probably wouldn’t have meant anything to Madame Flahaur if it hadn’t been the only call like it she’s had, since Mary disappeared. A woman telephoned two days ago, asking about the curriculum, particularly about the languages that are taught. That’s all she appeared interested in, according to Madame Flahaur. The prospectus she sent out was returned this morning: the address doesn’t exist. Neither does the phone number the woman left: I checked both with Belgacom on my way back.’

  ‘What language did the woman speak?’ demanded Claudine, immediately understanding.

  ‘French.’

  ‘Mary learning it?’

  Blake nodded. ‘She started it late, behind all the other pupils. It’s her second semester.’

  ‘Comprehension?’

  ‘Below average for her age, because of the late start.’

  ‘It’s got the arrogance of our blond in the Mercedes,’ judged Claudine slowly. ‘Arrogance coupled with clever caution. If you’re right – and I think you might well be – we now know whoever have Mary are French-speaking. But don’t want Mary to understand what they’re saying in front of her.’

  Volker nodded, also understanding now. ‘It could be a crank call. A lot of the e-mail stuff so far has been, particularly after the press conference identification.’

  ‘It’s feasible,’ agreed Claudine. ‘I don’t think it’s sufficient to reassure the parents that Mary’s still alive – and risk their agony if we’re wrong – but I think it’s something we can add to the profile as a possibility.’

  ‘It was two day ago,’ reminded Blake. ‘She could be dead by now.’

  ‘If they were going to kill her that quickly they wouldn’t have bothered to call the school in the first place,’ said Claudine. ‘It could also indicate they haven’t touched her sexually, either.’

  John Norris was mortified by McBride’s television appeal, practically unable to believe an ambassador of his great and wonderful country could have been reduced to begging like a bum on a street corner by the manipulation of just one woman. He’d even used some of the words and expressions that she’d suggested. They’d have laughed at that, all of them: known just how successful they were being, infiltrating the very investigation the way they had. Fooled everyone except him.

  But he was getting his own profile together. It was still very disjointed, a lot of threads hanging loose and needing to be tied together, but the unanswered discrepancies were there, like he’d known they would be.

  He still couldn’t find the fit for the Carter woman. Just knew that she was part of it because that was his job, to see things other investigators didn’t see and point the way for them to go. Which he would, when the other indicators slid into place. It wouldn’t take long.

  He’d already sent a priority demand for the full details upon which a Grand Jury arms embargo indictment had been issued against Italian arms dealer Luigi della Sialvo, in whose name two End User certificates had been issued for multi-million-dollar purchases from McBride’s corporation, before the man came on to the political scene. And another ‘what’s happening’ chase-up on all the possible disgruntled employees who’d been dismissed by Mrs McBride.

  Norris was becoming suspicious of Harding’s working relationship with the English detective: by not alerting him about the eye-witnesses to the kidnap ahead of the ambassador’s preparation for that humiliating TV appeal Harding had exposed him to ridicule. The man couldn’t be trusted. Neither could McCulloch or Ritchie. If anything was going to be done properly, he’d have to do it himself. And as quickly as possible.

  God knows what that poor child was going through. And there was only him to save her.

  Harding had his usual table at the rue Guimard bar and got the drinks in, as the in-country host. There was a lot of noise from other tables where other agents were determinedly enjoying the unexpected pleasure of an overseas assignment but Harding’s table was quiet. He said: ‘You want to know the truth? The truth is I’m scared shitless. I knew it was going to be bad, before I even heard he was involved. But I never imagined it could be like this. He’s totally fucking paranoid.’

  ‘I’m not arguing with that,’ agreed McCulloch, propping his feet on the only unoccupied chair to prevent anyone’s joining them. ‘The question is: what are we going to do about it? It’s our asses in a sling.’

  The Texan actually wore cowboy boots, Harding saw. He said: ‘The Europol guys know it, too. Virtually spelled it out.’

  ‘There’s nothing we can do,’ said Ritchie. ‘They’re the only people who can stop him.’

  ‘The sonofabitch is only getting a check run on the ambassador himself!’ McCu
lloch disclosed.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Gaston Mehre had very roughly re-dressed the boy in trousers, although he hadn’t zipped the fly or bothered with underpants. Otherwise the body was naked to the waist and without socks or shoes. The crumpled shirt nearby was flamboyantly ruched and the shoes were patent leather, with large silver buckles. There was a dried trickle of blood from the corner of his lipsticked mouth and after-death lividity, where the blood had pooled, darkened his face despite the make-up which also failed to hide completely an emerging beardline. The nipples were rouged. The eyes were bulging and the long black hair lankly matted by gel and sweat. The lingering cologne was still quite strong.

  Charles Mehre’s canopied bed was in chaotic disorder, the sheets balled up and in places torn, hanging from the bed in tendrils. Only one pillow remained on the bed, heavily indented and spotted with blood. There was also a splash of blood on a mirror set into the bedhead. Directly in front of the mirror was a pair of handcuffs and beside them a thin-thonged whip. On the floor nearby there was a black leather bag, on its side: a dildo and a set of nipple clamps were spilling out.

  Félicité turned away from the body, uninterested, walking back into the main room of the rambling, two-floored apartment above Gaston’s antique shop in Antwerp’s Schoenmarkt. Smet and Henri Cool were by the window, overlooking the city’s still bustling shopping district. Freed from Félicité’s restraint, Smet was smoking defiantly. Both he and Cool held whisky glasses. Gaston was by the drinks tray, pouring for himself, when Félicité entered. She shook her head against the gestured invitation. Charles Mehre was isolated in a far corner, hunched on a very upright chair. His head was low on his chest, a child caught doing something wrong. He hadn’t been given a drink. No one was talking.

  Félicité said: ‘Where did you get him?’

  ‘On the Paardenstraat,’ said Gaston, naming Amsterdam’s homosexual centre.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Last night.’

  ‘Anyone see you?’

  Gaston shrugged. ‘It was the busiest time.’

  ‘Were you in your car?’

  The antique dealer shook his head, gesturing towards his brother. ‘He wanted to choose himself.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘He called himself Stefan. Stefanie.’

  Félicité frowned. ‘What nationality?’

  ‘Romanian, he said. A lot of them have come from the East. He had an accent.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘It was to calm Charles down: you told me I had to. It meant getting him someone,’ said Gaston, defensively. ‘We were all together, when we got back. He was very good. He had to stay, obviously. This morning Charles said he wanted Stefan for another day: that he liked him. We fixed a price. I left them up here this afternoon, while I was downstairs in the shop.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Pushed his face down into the pillow from behind, until he suffocated. That’s how I found him. Charles says he didn’t know he was doing it: that he was excited.’

  Félicité crossed to the corner. Charles hunched down, cowering, at her approach. ‘Why!’ she shouted.

  The man tried to make himself smaller, not replying.

  ‘Why!’ she shouted again.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, mouse-voiced.

  ‘Tell me why.’ Félicité’s tone wasn’t so strident. It wasn’t as good as the feeling she got taking risks or partying with a group but it was close: there was a thrill making grown men cringe, nervously doing whatever she told them.

  ‘Wanted to,’ mumbled the man. ‘Felt nice.’

  It was an inconvenience, decided Félicité, allowing the anger: an intrusion for which she had to adjust when she’d thought she had everything worked out in its logical sequence. She leaned even closer to the man who still smelled of his victim’s cologne. ‘You’re stupid!’

  He looked up and as close as she was Félicité clearly saw the madness in his eyes and was momentarily unsure how much longer she could control him. Another reason for moving on from this inherited group, she thought, recalling her earlier uncertainty about Jean Smet.

  ‘Not stupid,’ snarled Charles.

  It would be wrong to show any fear: wrong to betray it to the man in front of her, to whom she couldn’t surrender control, and wrong, too, in front of the other men who had always and unquestioningly had to accept her as their leader. ‘Stupid!’ she repeated, her voice loud again. ‘Admit to me you’re stupid!’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Say it!’

  ‘Stupid,’ whispered the man.

  ‘Louder!’

  ‘Stupid.’

  ‘Louder still!’

  ‘Stupid!’ Charles shouted. He began to cry.

  ‘That’s good,’ said Félicité, soft again, encouraging. ‘Now promise me you won’t do anything like it again.’

  ‘Promise.’

  ‘Say I promise I won’t hurt anyone again: won’t kill anyone again.’

  ‘I promise I won’t hurt anyone again: won’t kill anyone again.’

  ‘That’s very good, Charles. You won’t forget that, will you?’

  ‘No.’

  Félicité turned to his brother. ‘Your storage basement has a security door, right? And your own cell?’

  ‘Yes?’ queried Gaston.

  To the head-bowed man in front of her Félicité said: ‘I want you to take Stefan down into the basement. And all his clothes. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tell me what you’ve got to do.’

  ‘Take him downstairs and put him in the cell.’

  ‘With his clothes,’ she prompted.

  ‘With his clothes,’ he agreed.

  ‘No!’ said Gaston, still close to where the drinks were. As Félicité turned again, she saw him pouring more whisky for the agitated Smet. Charles had been straightening but now he stopped, looking for guidance beyond Félicité to his protective brother. Gaston said: ‘I’ll get rid of the body, tonight. Cleanse it with a detergent, a spirit, before putting it naked into the river. It’ll be all right.’

  ‘No,’ said Félicité. ‘I want it kept, for the moment.’

  ‘Why?’ demanded the nervous Smet from the window.

  ‘Because I say so,’ insisted Félicité, who had no clear idea why she’d said what she had but didn’t want to be seen immediately to change her mind. She moved away from Charles Mehre, returning to the others. ‘Gin,’ she ordered. ‘Just ice.’

  ‘I want to get rid of the body,’ insisted Gaston stubbornly.

  ‘There might be a use for it. He’s a whore, probably entered Holland illegally in the first place. No one’s going to miss him. Whores disappear all the time.’ She turned back to the hunched man in the corner. ‘I said take him downstairs!’

  Charles Mehre looked between Félicité and his brother, like a trapped animal.

  Gaston capitulated. ‘Take him downstairs.’

  ‘That’s better,’ said Félicité. She was becoming irritated by the constant challenge, from too many people. She waited until Charles had stumped from the bedroom, the body heavy over his shoulder, and Gaston had fetched her drink before she said: ‘I don’t want him around Mary any more. Not until I say so. He’s too dangerous.’

  ‘Who’s going to look after her?’ demanded Cool.

  ‘Has anyone been to the house today?’ Félicité said, to Gaston.

  ‘Charles was going tonight,’ said the man.

  ‘I’ll go,’ decided Félicité. This had to be the last time: the end. Everything was falling apart. She supposed she should talk about the television appeal: she’d left Smet telling them when she looked at the body. She felt suddenly tired of them, not wanting to be with them any more that night. Instead she was anxious to get to the beach house. To be by herself with Mary. Her Mary. She said: ‘The pictures don’t look anything like me. Nothing’s changed.’

  Mary didn’t intend it to happen – didn’t know why it did – but a tiny mewin
g sound escaped when she heard the key. She didn’t care who it was, even if it was the woman. When it was the woman Mary was glad the heaviness of the door would have hidden the sound she’d made. She didn’t know how she came to be there but she found herself close to the door, expectantly, when it swung open. She moved back slightly, but the woman didn’t come into the cell. Instead she stepped back, smiling, gesturing Mary out into the larger room.

  ‘Did you think I’d forgotten you?’ Félicité’s voice was quiet, friendly, with only a trace of huskiness.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Mary shrugged. She felt better, being with someone. The woman didn’t seem so threatening tonight.

  ‘You should have known I wouldn’t do that. I don’t want to hurt you.’

  ‘Let me go, then.’

  ‘Soon. You must be hungry.’

  Mary was. The last she’d had to eat were the two rolls the snuffling man had brought for breakfast the previous morning. ‘Yes,’ she admitted.

  ‘I’ve got us both a meal,’ said Félicité, pointing. There was a tray on one of the low tables, by the central dance floor. On it was laid out bread, cold meat, fruit and cheese. There was also a bottle of red wine and a bottle of water and two glasses.

  ‘Do you eat with your mama and papa?’ asked Félicité, leading the way.

  ‘At the weekends, mostly. They’re too busy during the week. There’s a nanny. Joyce.’ She decided against telling the woman that mom and dad squabbled all the time.

  ‘I’m going to enjoy having supper with you.’

  ‘Yes.’ The food couldn’t be poisoned if the woman was going to eat it as well. She was very hungry, her tummy growling. She was embarrassed, not wanting the woman to hear. Mom said it was rude when your stomach made noises. She liked the woman being kind to her, not shouting or hitting her.

  Seeing Mary’s hesitation and guessing the reason Félicité served meat on both plates, tasted hers immediately and said: ‘It’s very nice. Try it.’

  Mary did, at first hungrily but then more slowly, not wanting to annoy the woman. The meat tasted wonderful, the first proper food she’d had for days. She’d forgotten how long: forgotten to keep checking the date on her watch. She didn’t mind the way the woman was looking at her, smiling. It was good, just being next to someone: not being alone.