Hate Bale

by Stephanie Dagg

  Philippe groaned. He was shattered. It had been a crazy few days since the first murder, and on top of that the last twenty-four hours had been draining and sleep-deprived. His boss drove like a maniac and he’d been on edge the entire way there and back to Calais. He’d hoped to sneak in a couple of short naps during the journey but had been too terrified to close his eyes for a second. On top of that, the suspect had insisted on wasting their time by refusing to speak at all during the first two interviews, which had dragged on silently until late at night. A few uncomfortable hours’ sleep on bunks at the police station hadn’t refreshed Philippe at all. He’d woken with a thumping headache and despondent at the thought of another day of pointlessly glaring at the suspect across the small table in the bare, windowless room. However, during the third interview at breakfast time today, after the juge d’investigation had had five minutes alone with him, he suddenly became eloquent again. He admitted to stealing the car, and to the dangerous driving that had sent a cyclist into a ditch and Martha into taking evasive action, but swore he’d had nothing to do with any murders. He didn’t even know that Daniel Frobart’s farm supplies shop existed.

  So the whole, weekend-wrecking trip had turned out to be the massive waste of time Philippe thought it would be.

  Feeling completely drained, he yawned and ran a hand across his stubbly chin. He was getting too old for this. Policing was a young person’s game. At this moment he felt more like seventy-five than fifty-five. Maybe he should look into taking early retirement, or request a transfer to a paper-pushing department. Chasing around the country after miscreants like this was going to finish him off. He’d done more than his fair share of dealing with deranged, damaged and just plain evil people. It was time to go.

  He headed to the bathroom, gazing longingly at his bed as he passed the open door of the bedroom. He was dying for a few hours’ sleep, but he’d promised Martha he’d be there to cheer her on in her race. And anyway, he wanted to see Martha. Needed to see Martha.

  Stepping into the shower, he reflected on how he’d always found her attractive. She was witty and wry, kind and beautiful. The main reason he’d agreed to those tedious chess sessions with Mark was so he could see his best friend’s wife. He’d liked Mark very much, but preferred Martha. And that stupid row had stopped him seeing them both.

  Philippe should have kept his mouth shut. But he couldn’t, not with seeing Mark flirting so outrageously with some bosomy, dyed blonde at that chess club Christmas dinner, and knowing what a loyal, loving wife he had at home. They’d all had too much to drink. That’s what had washed away their inhibitions and made Mark lustful and Philippe furious. He’d launched into Mark, telling him that he didn’t deserve Martha if this was how he behaved with other women. Actually, he didn’t deserve Martha, full stop. Despite the alcohol slowing his thought processes, Mark had realised what Philippe was really saying. He was really saying that he was in love with Martha. Mark had thrown a wild punch that Philippe had easily parried, but that signified the end of that friendship.

  And Philippe had tried to keep his distance since Mark’s death. He knew that the couple had been truly happy together, and that Mark’s drunken behaviour that night at the bistro was completely out of character. He could see how distraught Martha was, and could only watch as she shut herself away from the world for the best part of two long years. He ached to be there for her and help her through this awful time, but frankly he couldn’t trust himself not to callously take advantage of her being so vulnerable. And so he’d kept his distance, seeing her now and again for coffee or meals, keeping it light and family-friendsy.

  Then there’d been Elodie, a nurse he’d bumped into several times at the local hospital in the line of duty. She made it clear she liked him from day one, and that was very flattering. Especially to a Frenchman. She’d separated from her husband Edouard a few months previously and was still healing. Philippe was a shoulder to cry on and then arms to cry in. He was lonely, and for a while he really thought he and Elodie might actually work. But she was moody and, deep down, still in love with her husband. As was he with Martha. For over a year their on-again off-again relationship dragged on, very painfully at times, until at last, to everyone’s relief, she announced she was going back to Edouard. Only Philippe’s pride was hurt by that: his heart was untouched. It still belonged to Martha.

  That had been a month ago. He’d been summoning up his courage to ask Martha out when this series of unpleasant murders, not that there were actually such things as pleasant murders, had conveniently thrown them together. Every cloud had its silver lining.

  And so he whistled as he towelled himself rigorously dry and then dressed. He swallowed a double espresso for extra oomph, grabbed his wallet and car keys and headed into Bousseix.

  The town was crowded and mostly blocked off, now that the race was well underway, so Philippe parked up by the gendarmerie and walked into the centre. It didn’t take him long to locate Martha’s groupies. He heard and smelt Lottie before he saw her. She had a strident voice and an over-fondness for perfume, both things that severely grated on his nerves. He followed their trail which led him to the café table where he found Jared along with Lottie and her husband, whose name he could never remember. The excited tones of the official making the loudspeaker announcements suggested that the first cyclists would be finishing soon.

  Philippe gritted his teeth and kissed Lottie’s cheeks, then shook hands with the two men. He added a pat on the back to Jared as he sat down.

  “So, how was your mum when she set off?” he asked Jared.

  “Nervous but determined,” was Jared’s assessment.

  “She’ll be fine,” nodded Philippe. “She had a good trainer. So, how’s life treating you?”

  As Jared answered with the enthusiasm of a young person happy with their job and their partner, Philippe pulled out his phone surreptitiously, keeping it on his lap, and flicked to a particular app. A red dot appeared. He didn’t zoom in to check the map precisely: he could see from a glance that Martha was three-quarters of the way round the course.

  He gave his full attention to Jared, confident that Martha would be back in twenty minutes or so. Cyclists began appearing and he joined the crowd in applauding each one. However, half an hour later there was still no sign of Martha, and after forty-five minutes all the other fifty-plus ladies had returned. Philippe summed up their physical form with a practiced eye and frowned. There was no way these women could or should have beaten Martha, apart from the lean, sporty woman who’d been the first one back in the age group.

  He flicked the app back on and felt a prickle of alarm run down his spine when he saw that this time there was no red dot marking the position of Martha’s bike. He’d secretly shoved a screw-in tracking device into one end of its handlebar yesterday morning. Heavens, that seemed so long ago. He frowned. There were only a couple of patches of the local area where no mobile signal was available, and Martha shouldn’t be in either of those. Ignoring what Lottie was saying to him, this time he called up the ‘report last known location’ facility on the app. He couldn’t believe it when he saw that Martha was last logged at a point that wasn’t on the official route at all. How could she have got lost? He’d shown her the way and she’d put that marker at the dodgy five-way crossroads, but according to his app she’d last been recorded heading down the wrong road from that junction. Was her memory going?

  No. Martha was sharp as a pin. There was no way she’d have gone off-route voluntarily. An awful possibility dawned on him and his blood ran cold.

  He stood up abruptly, sending his chair crashing to the ground behind him. He strode off towards the stewards’ tent, pushing roughly past the people in his way but not caring.

  Jared, Lottie and Roger exchanged concerned looks then scampered after him.

  “How many are still out there?” demanded Philippe, entering the tent without introducing himself.

  “Four to go,” said one of the two stewards seated
at a small table, gesturing to a list in front of him. On arrival, cyclists reported in to say they were back. “Oh, just two now,” he corrected himself, seeing two very elderly men sedately cycle past the tent door to a tumultuous welcome from the spectators. “A Martha B… Beegluuu… Beeegg—”

  “Beeguuulllzzvaite,” snapped Philippe impatiently and not without a hint of superiority. Couldn’t the guy read?

  “Yes, her, and a Thomas Martin.”

  Philippe groaned and ran a hand over his eyes. How many Thomas Martins had he come across in his career? Thomas being one of the most common first names and Martin the most common surname, the combination was the number-one choice as an assumed name. Except for one person, who actually was called Thomas Martin, all those others he’d questioned or arrested over the years had turned out to have far more distinctive real names. He’d bet all he had that this Thomas Martin was a fake, and, disastrously, the person behind the farm-related murders.

  “What’s going on?” came Jared’s worried voice from behind Philippe.

  “Yes,” chimed in the other steward, presumably higher up the organisational hierarchy than his companion, given that he had a bigger badge and a much larger aura of self-importance. His peeved tone indicated that he didn’t appreciate Philippe’s abrupt arrival and manner. “Explain yourself.”

  “We have a problem,” announced Philippe through gritted teeth. “A big problem.”

  He whirled round, coming nose to nose with Lottie, who’d just barrelled in behind him.

  “Where’s your car?” demanded Philippe. “Is it close?”

  “Yes, it’s in that small car park behind the butcher’s.”

  That was much nearer than Philippe’s.

  “Keys,” he ordered, holding out his hand.

  “No way. I’m driving,” retorted Lottie.

  They stared at each other in fury for a second or two.

  “She’s my friend too,” Lottie reminded him, certain that all this had something to do with Martha.

  “What’s going on?” came Jared’s voice again, uncertain.

  “I’ll tell you on the way.” Philippe turned back to the stewards. “Call the emergency services, all of them, and tell them to go to Les Bottiers.”

  The head steward registered defiance and annoyance, but only momentarily as Philippe leaned over the table so his face was right in the steward’s.

  “Do it,” he growled.

  “What the f—” began Jared, now thoroughly alarmed.

  Philippe whirled round once more.

  “Your mother’s in danger. Now hurry.”

  He raced out of the tent towards where Lottie’s car was. She click-clacked alongside in ridiculously high stiletto-heeled sandals. Jared jogged behind them, feeling sick with worry. Roger, red in the face, tried to keep up.

  Lottie glanced back. “Rog, stay here,” she commanded. “For goodness sake, you don’t need another heart attack.”

  “I’m fine,” he puffed. “My left hook is still as good as it used to be. Might come in handy.”

  Roger had been an amateur boxer in his youth, as evidenced by his wonky nose and cauliflower left ear.

  “So long as you don’t drop dead before we reach the car,” snapped back Lottie.

  Roger just shrugged and ploughed grimly on.

  They reached the vehicle and jumped in. Lottie had it in motion before Roger had shut his door. Huge as the car was, and tightly as it was hemmed in, not helped by some idiot who’d parked in what wasn’t a parking space at all, Lottie had them out on the road within seconds. She’d been fractions of a millimetre from hitting other vehicles but had got away with it. Frankly, none of her passengers would have cared if she’d driven over the top of the other cars to get out.

  “Which way?” she demanded as they reached the first junction coming out of the town.

  “Left.”

  “You said—” Jared began his reminder to Philippe.

  “Your mother’s in danger,” repeated Philippe.

  There was a momentary pause. “How much danger?”

  “A lot.” Philippe realised he had to tell the truth. “I… I believe she’s in the hands of our murderer.”

  Glancing into the rear view mirror Philippe watched Jared turn deathly white.

  “Not Mum…” Jared’s voice trailed off.

  “She’s a cunning old fox,” said Roger reassuringly, patting Jared’s leg, although he too was pale as a ghost. “She’ll have outwitted him, you’ll see.”

  Jared blinked back sudden tears, then his face set. “If he’s hurt her, I’ll kill the bastard.”

  “No you won’t. I will,” said Roger. “You’re too young to rot in jail for murder, however justified. I, on the other hand, could do with a bit of peace and quiet.” He winked at Jared.

  Lottie snorted.

  “Right,” barked out Philippe as another turn came into view.

  He was reluctant to admit it but Lottie was a superb driver. She was going a damn sight faster than even he’d dare along these roads. But then she was driving a formidable machine. Were they to hit a tractor, the car would come off best.

  “Next left, then second right,” he directed and made a quick call to the Vampire Judge. She didn’t answer so he left a short message summarising recent developments.

  “And straight here,” he told Lottie as they approached the next junction.

  Ignoring the ancient and half-hearted ‘give way’ sign, Lottie raced onwards. This road rapidly became single-track with a generous growth of grass along the middle.

  “Nearly there, another couple of kilometres,” said Philippe. “Les Bottiers is a deserted old farm. Straggles to both sides of the road. This part of the area is completely uninhabited these days.”

  He and Lottie focussed on the twisting road ahead of them. Roger had his eyes shut, as he often did when his wife drove them anywhere. So it was Jared who spotted it.

  “If it’s uninhabited round here, why can I see smoke?” he asked, mouth dry. “An awful lot of smoke.”

  Chapter 20

  For quarter of an hour, Martha didn’t move. Her brain had gone into overdrive and she was trying to sort through the deluge of thoughts, most of them panic-stricken and hysterical, to find some sensible and supportive ones.

  All she could hear through the thick wooden door was birdsong. But that wasn’t to say the man wasn’t lurking just inches away. It had sounded like he’d left, but he might have tiptoed back and quietly unjammed the latch on his side. He might be tricking her, expecting her to try the door and find that it opened. She’d rush out in joyous relief and he’d clonk her on the head with something hard and heavy or stick something sharp through her.

  Not going to happen. She wasn’t that dumb.

  How soon would it be before her entourage worked out something had happened to her? Not that long, surely. Philippe was meant to be coming back around now. He’d get a search organised. They’d find her before too long. OK, it might not be for twenty-four hours or so as there was a fair-sized chunk of the area to comb through, but they’d definitely get her before she died of dehydration.

  She shouldn’t have thought about that as she suddenly felt very thirsty. She hadn’t drunk much at all during the ride, not wanting to lose time by slowing down in order to fumble with her bike bottle. So, she was already slightly dehydrated. That might take a whole day off her survival rate…

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she told herself sharply.

  She started to pace the room, but then made herself stop. She needed to conserve her energy. She had her bar of melted chocolate to keep her going, but it would be silly to waste calories on non-productive wandering around. She’d keep the chocolate until she was really hungry and then ration it to last as long as possible. Her stomach chose that moment to rumble. Stupidly she’d run her reserves right down. Philippe had told her to keep topped up with water and nibbles during the ride so that she didn’t suddenly ‘bonk’. And of course she’d ignored that advi
ce.

  She sat on the floor to think, feeling weak and wobbly. If nothing had happened by night-time, either in terms of sounds from outside suggesting her foe was still there or a dramatic rescue by her friends, she’d try and get out. Thinking about the latches on the stable doors at home, the only way you could disable them was by jamming a stone between the door and the lifting mechanism to stop it moving. There was a chance she could rattle it free if she tried hard enough. There was no point trying now because if the man in red was still there, he’d simply re-jam the latch, and more efficiently.

  She studied the two, tiny round windows. She’d barely get her head through either of those and most definitely not her shoulders or hips. She sighed anyway, determined to be more self-restrained and try and shift those excess few kilograms once this ordeal was over, just in case a similar one arose which involved her stuck somewhere with slightly bigger windows.

  Because the ordeal would be over, soonish. She was safe from the maniac in here and someone would find her before very much longer. She started to relax. She went over and over in her head what the guy had told her so that she could tell Philippe and the Vampire Judge without forgetting a single detail. He’d be tried and put away for life. She’d be the key witness since she was the one whose testimony would get him locked up.

  So… wasn’t she getting away a bit easily, that being the case? She tried to quash that thought as it raised its ugly head in her mind, but to no avail. It began to grow and swamp everything else. Her quiet, jubilant confidence that she’d be free soon was the first casualty. Martha knew who this man was, by appearance if not by name. He’d confessed all his crimes to her. His intent had been to finish her off after that – she shuddered – but she’d escaped to this hidey-hole. And apart from jamming the latch shut and scaring her with stories of dying from dehydration, he’d apparently simply pottered off.

  He must surely know that the police would search for Martha and eventually locate her. She didn’t know if the local force had tracker dogs, but lots of farmers round here had hunting dogs that might work as well. They were good at sniffing things out. If they waved one of the dirty socks out of her laundry basket under their nose, they’d pick up her scent surely. She pulled a face. The thought of people going through her washing-to-be-done pile wasn’t a flattering one. But if it meant saving her, then they could go through all her stuff and share photos of her baggy but comfy undies on the internet if they wanted. And once the police found Martha then there’d be a full-scale manhunt for the man in red. He couldn’t possibly evade capture for long. He—