Dead Line (19 page)

‘How long have you known about them?’ Trent asked.

‘Three, four months,’ Alain replied.

‘And Jérôme?’

‘Hard to tell.’

‘Has he said anything to you?’

‘Not directly.’

‘And indirectly?’

Alain sighed. ‘I think he knows. He’s been different. Distracted. The last couple of months in particular.’

The last couple of months.
Aimée had vanished almost nine weeks ago. ‘Have you asked him about it?’

Alain shook his head. ‘We’re talking about his wife and son here. They’ve betrayed him.’

‘And you?’ Trent asked.

‘What about me?’

‘You’ve known. You haven’t spoken to him about it. Maybe he views that as a betrayal, too.’

Alain pushed up to his feet. He dusted the dirt from his hands. ‘Maybe I feel sorry for her.’

‘Stephanie? How so?’

He ran a finger around his collar. His shirt was crumpled and pasted to his skin where the straps of his holster had pressed the material against his body. His Ruger was close at hand, nestled beneath his arm. ‘She has a difficult time. Cooped up in this place. She can’t dance professionally any more. She doesn’t get to see her friends. She isn’t allowed a telephone.’

‘So it’s OK that she’s sleeping with her stepson?’

‘No. It’s not OK.’

‘Is he the only one she sleeps with?’

Alain’s eyes flashed with anger. He shook his head, slowly and deliberately, as if warning Trent not to push him further.

Trent shrugged. ‘You two are close. Anyone can see that. And Philippe seems to think there’s something going on.’

Alain looked down over him, the Ruger at his side, the green light glowing and flaring around his shoulders. His massive hands clenched into fists down by his sides. His feet were spread shoulder width apart, the left just in front of the right. It would be easy for him to come at him now. He could lash out with a kick. Or swing down with a punch. There wasn’t a lot Trent could do to defend himself.

‘I wouldn’t do that to Jérôme.’

‘But probably you’d like to?’

‘Doesn’t come into it.’

Trent took that as a yes. He couldn’t exactly blame the guy. It would be hard for anyone to ignore Stephanie’s charms. Difficult for Trent, for example. And he wasn’t living in the same house as her. Wasn’t responsible for her safety twenty-four hours a day.

‘Tell me about the cameras,’ he said.

Alain didn’t reply.

‘They’re the reason I came out here.’ Trent jerked his thumb in the direction of the device attached to the tree in front of the cabin. ‘I saw the door to your security room had been left open. Saw the cameras had been diverted.’

Still Alain didn’t speak.

Trent said, ‘You moved them for her, didn’t you?’

‘I didn’t move them.’

‘Then what?’

He opened his hands and spread his fingers, as if letting go of his anger. He toed the ground in front of his feet. ‘I leave the door open sometimes. She moves them herself. ’

‘But how did you know to leave the door open this afternoon?’

‘She asked me to do it.’

‘When?’

Alain reached into his back pocket. He removed a scrunched-up ball of notepaper. ‘She passed me this.’ He held it in his bear-paw palm. ‘When we were in the study. Opening the package.’

Trent whistled. He shook his head as he found his feet.

He’d already underestimated Stephanie once but now he realised that she was much tougher and more single-minded than he’d even begun to appreciate. He pictured her reaction when they’d opened the parcel and found the fake ear and the counterfeit blood. The way she’d flattened herself against Alain’s chest. The way she’d clutched his shirt. Had she passed him the note right then? Or had she waited a few minutes longer? Did it matter either way?

So she wasn’t just a good dancer. She was a talented actress, too. That was something Trent should remember.

Despite himself, he couldn’t help thinking of Jérôme. There was no way he could feel sympathy for the guy. All Trent was interested in was securing his release so that he could interrogate him about Aimée. But what must it be like to be in his position right now? How must he feel, knowing that two people entrusted with his life had already betrayed him?

‘How would you explain the cameras?’ Trent asked. ‘If Jérôme ever reviewed the footage, I mean?’

‘He never looked. It was always just me. That’s how I found out about them in the first place.’ Alain met Trent’s gaze. He conjured a sad smile. ‘She begged me not to tell. She was a mess.’

A real one? Or had she just acted that way?

‘Why did they come to this cabin today, anyway?’ Trent asked. ‘Jérôme’s not here. They could have used a bedroom in the house.’

Alain pouted. ‘Habit, maybe. This is where they always come. Also, Thérèse – the housekeeper – would tell Jérôme if she ever found out. She hates Stephanie.’

‘And Philippe?’ Trent asked. ‘He’s aware that you’re compromised?’

‘He likes watching me squirm. I’m in an awkward position.’

‘Is that why he makes all the jibes about you and Stephanie?’

‘I’m sure that’s part of it.’

‘And the rest?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t care. I gave up trying to understand him a long time ago.’

‘But you think you understand him enough to know he doesn’t want his father back alive?’

‘They’re not close. Never have been. And Philippe leads an expensive lifestyle. His business is a joke. He needs new funds. And his father has plenty of them.’

Trent rubbed the back of his neck. His skin was hot and sticky, muscles knotted. ‘In other words, he won’t pay Xavier what he wants. And neither will Stephanie.’

‘They won’t.’ Alain squeezed the ball of paper in his fist. He thrust it deep into his pocket. ‘But I will.’

Alain claimed he could get hold of three million euros. No more. No less. He didn’t explain how. He didn’t elaborate. But he was clear. He was confident. And Trent believed him.

‘Will it be enough?’ Alain asked, walking alongside Trent as they crossed the lawn towards the house.

‘Let’s hope so.’

‘What do we do?’

‘We email Xavier. We make him an offer.’

‘What about the rest of the team?’

‘New team,’ Trent said. ‘New unit. It’s you and me now. We’re Jérôme’s best chance.’

And not just Jérôme’s
, Trent thought.
Mine and Aimée’s, too.

They had the study all to themselves when they entered. Trent hung back and watched as Alain moved around behind the desk and fished his set of keys out of his pocket. He worked his way through the collection until he selected a small brass key that looked a lot like the skeleton key Trent had used. He went straight to the middle left-hand drawer and removed the laptop. He placed it in the centre of the desk and flipped it open, then pecked at a series of keys. He hit
ENTER
and spun the laptop around until it was facing Trent.

‘Go ahead,’ he said.

‘This is Jérôme’s computer?’

Alain nodded.

‘Isn’t it security protected?’

‘I know his password. I told you. He trusts me.’

Not with everything, Trent thought. Not with the existence of the K & R insurance policy. And perhaps not with the knowledge of what Jérôme had done to Aimée. Was it possible Alain hadn’t been involved? Was he someone Trent might trust, too?

‘We should set up our own email account,’ Trent told him. ‘It protects Jérôme. And it sends a signal. It tells Xavier that we understand his approach. We appreciate the need for secrecy.’

‘Go ahead. You do it.’

‘OK. But I have a question first.’

Alain pressed his lips together. He waited.

‘The housekeeper,’ Trent said. ‘Is she a good cook?’

Alain relaxed. He almost smiled. ‘You’d like something to eat?’

‘More than just something. I’m hungry. And we could be in for a long wait.’

The meal was simple but excellent. Pan-fried sea bass, a generous salad, plenty of fresh bread and a carafe of chilled white wine. The housekeeper had carried everything into the study on a silver tray and had laid it out on the desk between the two men just as Trent finished composing his email. She hadn’t sneaked a glance at the screen. She hadn’t spoken a word. She was just as guarded as the last time Trent had seen her, though she managed a tight smile and a nod when he took his first forkful of fish and complimented her on its taste.

She left the study and closed the door. Trent loaded his fork with more fish and handed the laptop to Alain. He gestured for him to read the message he’d typed out.

Alain looked up from the screen.

‘What do you think?’ Trent asked, chewing his fish.

‘I think maybe we should offer less. Leave ourselves room to add more.’

‘We could do that,’ Trent said. ‘I thought of it myself. Offer a couple of hundred thousand less, perhaps. Or suggest an odd number. Something that works as a kind of psychological trick, implying it’s everything that Stephanie and Philippe are able to pull together.’ He grabbed a salad leaf that had been dressed, like the fish, in olive oil. Popped it in his mouth and savoured the taste and the texture. ‘But why fool around?’ he asked, swallowing. ‘It’s like this meal. It works because it’s straightforward. I think we should make the offer straightforward, too. I think we should make it as easy as possible for Xavier to say yes.’

‘What if he asks for more?’

Trent mopped his lips with the linen napkin the housekeeper had provided. ‘I don’t think he will. Three million is already more than he would have expected to receive. It’s more than I’d normally sanction. That carries a risk, it’s true. He may believe that he’s found a soft touch. But that’s why I’ve made it clear the email is from me. Remember, the two of us have negotiated before. The discussions went on for a long time. Close to a year. They were arduous for me. They were probably worse for him. He has a team of men to keep happy. A host of varying opinions to balance. I’m sending him a message that allows him to avoid all that.’

‘Maybe he’ll think it’s too easy? Maybe he’ll suspect a trap?’

‘I doubt it. He selected Jérôme very carefully. He knows how he got rich and how he stays that way. He picked a target who wouldn’t be eager to have the police involved, crawling around his home and poking their noses into his business. And besides, Xavier’s proved to me that he’s good at avoiding takedowns. He evaded the police the last time I dealt with him. He’ll have learned from that experience. He’ll be confident he can get away with it this time, too.’

Alain gazed at the laptop screen. He read the message over again, eyes trawling from left to right, mouth constantly moving. He ripped off more bread. Weighed it in his palm.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘Everything you’ve said makes sense to me.’

‘It makes sense to me, too. But that’s no guarantee. I can’t say for sure how Xavier is going to react.’

‘Then it’s time we found out.’

Alain palmed the bread into his mouth and laid both hands over the laptop keyboard. He traced a finger over the trackpad. Paused. Hit a key. The machine emitted a cheerful
ding
, followed by the
whoosh
of the message being dispatched. The processor purred. It whirred. It fell silent.

Alain leaned back from the screen. His eyes were bleary, his brow furrowed.

‘Go ahead and eat,’ Trent told him, reaching for his own plate. ‘He won’t get back to us right away. He may not see the message for many hours.’

Alain hesitated. He eyed his meal.

‘Eat,’ Trent repeated. ‘Drink some wine. You just took control of the situation. Enjoy it while you can.’

Alain didn’t enjoy it for long. He’d only managed a few mouthfuls of sea bass when the door to the study was thrown open and Stephanie burst in.

‘Thérèse said you were in here.’

Alain looked up from his plate, his fork halfway to his mouth. He lowered the fork slowly. Pushed the plate to one side. Lifted his napkin and dabbed his lips.

‘Somebody has to be,’ he said.

Stephanie approached the desk, then hesitated. It took her a moment to process the possible meanings of the open laptop. Her skin whitened and pulled tight across her cheekbones. She clutched at her hair, digging her fingers into her scalp.

‘What is this?’ she asked. ‘What’s happening?’

‘We made the gang an offer.’

She took a step and reached out as if to snatch the laptop, then paused and pulled back as though it was radiating a fierce heat. She straightened her arms by her sides, locking her elbows. Her lean fingers curled like talons.

‘But you can’t do this,’ she said, shoulders quaking. ‘I don’t have access to Jérôme’s money.’

‘I arranged something.’ Alain stared at her, impassive. ‘Enough to send a message to Xavier.’

‘You didn’t speak with me first.’

‘You were otherwise engaged.’ His tone was flat. Face expressionless. ‘So was Philippe.’

She bared her teeth and pointed a finger at Alain. ‘Don’t talk to me that way. You can’t do this. You can’t act without our agreement.’

Alain glanced sideways at Trent. He raised an eyebrow.

‘He already did,’ Trent told her. ‘It’s done.’

She turned on him. Her lips were thin and bloodless, her cheeks sucked in, face as sharp as a blade.

‘You said that we’re a team. A unit.’

‘Your judgement is compromised. Philippe’s, too. I’m sorry. My firm’s contract is with Jérôme. I’m required by law to act in his best interests. And besides, any refund of a ransom payment from the insurance company we work with requires my say-so. There’s no way I could sanction a payout from the policy if I allowed you or Philippe to participate in this negotiation any longer.’

‘What did he tell you?’ she hissed, flinging her thin arm towards Alain.

Trent hated looking at her then. The dark, glossy hair and the fine bone structure and the flawless skin had transformed themselves into something twisted and vile. She wasn’t a beautiful young woman any more. She wasn’t a dancer struck low by a tragic injury. She was a broken, trapped creature. An exotic bird who had thrashed against the bars that held her until she was left weak and bedraggled, barely worth saving at all.

‘He didn’t tell me anything,’ Trent said. ‘I saw it for myself. Saw both of you. And I think it’s best if you leave now. Don’t embarrass yourself any more.’

He expected a response. An angry denial of some kind. But it never came. She was there one moment. She was gone the next. All that lingered was the sudden hush in the room and the uneasy sensation of one catastrophe averted and, just possibly, another still to come.

Trent spent the next hour with Alain in the study. They listened to Stephanie slamming doors upstairs. They saw Philippe saunter out to his sports car and roar away from the house. They pushed food about their plates. They shared small talk about sports – the football season just passed for Olympic Marseilles and the season yet to come.

They glanced at the telephone. Alain refreshed the laptop. There was no call from Xavier’s gang. No email.

‘You want coffee?’ Alain asked, some time after 8 p.m.

‘Sounds good,’ Trent told him.

Alain stacked their dishes and glasses onto the tray beside the carafe of wine. They hadn’t consumed much. Just a glass each. If the circumstances had been different, Trent could have finished the bottle. The wine had knocked the ragged edge off his nerves. It had soothed him. But there was no telling what might happen next or when. There was no knowing how he might need to react.

He waited until Alain had carried the tray of things from the study and passed along the glazed corridor before moving around behind the desk and crouching over the laptop. The internet browser was open. The temporary email account they had set up was the only page loaded on the screen. He minimised the window and accessed the file directory.

Jérôme’s documents were arranged alphabetically in a long list of sub-folders that ranged from
Aventure
to
Solaris
. Names of yachts, Trent guessed.

He moved the screen pointer over the first folder:
Aventure
. He clicked on it and a new window ballooned out of the middle of the screen. A password prompt. The folder was protected.

Trent cancelled out of the window and tried to access three more folders. He got the same result every time. He closed the file directory. Restored the browser with the brand new email account. There was one unopened message. A welcome from the account provider.

He turned and faced one of the shelves of green leather books behind the desk. He rested a finger on the top of a spine. Prised it out.

And surprised himself.

The case was a fake. There was no doubt about that. But there was a real book inside. It was about two-thirds the size of the green leather sleeve. The threadbare jacket was a faded red. The binding was shot and the pages were loose. Trent opened it carefully to the first page. It was some kind of dusty historical text. Not something Trent had read before and not anything he felt like reading now.

He replaced it and took his fingers for a walk along the next set of shelves. More history. He moved on, trying the shelves on the other side of an intervening window. He stumbled across a volume of poetry. Getting colder. He kept looking, kept levering the green leather sleeves from the shelves and inspecting the hidden books they contained. Kept putting them back.

He was still searching when Alain returned. Trent recognised the jug of coffee on the circular silver tray he was carrying.

Alain grinned sheepishly. ‘Promise you won’t force this down my throat?’

Trent smiled back. He promised. Then he fixed himself a mug of coffee, no cream, and spread out on the chesterfield where Philippe had sprawled the previous night. He drank his coffee. He scanned the uniform ranks of green book jackets.

But he wasn’t taking anything in. His mind was elsewhere. He was thinking about Xavier. Thinking about Jérôme and what he might be able to tell him about Aimée. And he was watching Alain from the corner of his eye. Alain was drinking some coffee of his own and he was crouched forward over the laptop, his face and hands lit from the screen glow.

The two of them had fallen into a companionable silence. Truth was, Trent liked Alain. He was a capable guy to be working with. He asked sensible questions. He’d challenged and tested Trent’s reasoning. He’d shown himself to be reliable. And though he was clearly loyal to Jérôme, willing to do what was necessary to raise the cash to free him and prepared to stand up to Stephanie and Philippe when it mattered, he was also prepared to act independently when he thought it was the right thing to do.

It was obvious that he’d been looking out for Stephanie for some time. Maybe that was because he was attracted to her. Maybe he was aware that Jérôme beat her and he believed that helping her was the right thing to do. Or maybe he just preferred to do whatever he could to avoid the fallout that would come from Jérôme openly acknowledging his wife’s affair with his son. Whatever his true motivation, he’d demonstrated to Trent that he was able to think for himself. He’d shown compassion. And Trent was pretty confident that he’d gained his respect, even if he was still a little way short of securing his trust.

So what he was asking himself was whether he should mention Aimée’s name to him again. And, if he did, he was debating how far he should go. Should he just refer to her as his colleague and see how Alain responded? Or should he say more?

Would he end up with an ally, or an enemy?

Was it worth the risk?

He sipped his coffee. He ran his eyes over the rows and columns of matching green book covers, every one identical, every one concealing its true contents. After a time, it got dark enough outside for the automatic sensors to click in and the security lights to power up and he watched Alain go around the octagonal room, drawing the luxurious curtains against the startling glare. And all the while he kept asking himself the same questions: What did the man sitting opposite him really know? And what might he be prepared to share?