Dead Line (25 page)

Trent placed a glass of cloudy tap water on the coffee table in front of Viktor. The kid was perched on the leather couch in Trent’s living room, clutching a towel around his shoulders. He was rocking gently, humming a faint tune. His lank blond hair was dripping wet and he was shivering in his damp clothes. His jaw trembled, teeth clicking off one another.

Trent made a show of picking up the Ruger and the box of cartridges and shutting them away inside a kitchen drawer. He fetched a high wooden stool and sat on it with his back resting against the counter, so that he was facing Viktor and he could keep an eye on the front door to his apartment. The door was hanging open an inch or two. A shaft of sunlight was shining through into the hall.

Trent was wearing jogging trousers and a sleeveless vest. His neck was sore. He guessed he had some kind of kink in his muscles or his ligaments. He could look to the left OK, but he felt a blockage and a hot, searing pain if he tried rotating his head more than a few degrees to his right. His throat hurt, too. There was a cluster of burst blood vessels on his skin where Viktor had tried crushing his windpipe. It looked like a rash or an allergic reaction.

It could have been worse. The shotgun might have gone off before he’d had time to react. There’d have been no surviving it. Not at such close range.

And then there was Viktor. The kid was clearly in shock. His skin was almost as grey as his sodden sweatshirt, the damp hood congealed against his back like a deflated balloon. Trent guessed he was also in pain. His neck was branded with a livid red line from where the laundry cord had bitten into his skin. He’d spat blood onto his towel. He grimaced each time he swallowed and he kept raising his hand to his throat, as if checking it was still intact. It had taken him a long time to regulate his breathing. Even now, there was a soggy rattle when he inhaled.

It was more than eighteen months since Trent had last seen Viktor. Back then, the kid had spent most of their debrief session staring down at the chewed-up nubs of skin on his left hand where his thumb and finger used to be. And when he wasn’t contemplating his injuries, he was gazing over Trent’s shoulder towards the doors of the sunlit
salon
they were sitting in. The doors were wide open but the kid hadn’t seemed capable of accepting it. Trent had guessed that it would be a very long time before he’d feel comfortable in an enclosed space again.

He didn’t seem any more composed now. His gaze had a nervy restlessness to it. He was looking all around. Behind him. In front of him. Along the hallway over his shoulder. At the boxroom behind him. But never at Trent.

‘What are you doing here, Viktor?’

The kid hummed. He didn’t reply. He was no longer wearing the gloves he must have found in the boxroom. Trent had made him take them off and leave them in the bathroom, along with the shotgun.

It was hard for Trent to ignore the damage to Viktor’s hand. The cuts weren’t clean and surgical. They were rough and uneven. Trent supposed the kid had been offered some kind of cosmetic procedure to neaten things up – he knew for a fact that his parents could afford it – so it seemed likely that he’d chosen to keep his hand that way.

‘You broke into my home, Viktor,’ Trent said. ‘You attacked me. Came close to killing me.’

Still Viktor hummed his inane tune. His thighs and knees were pumping up and down, his lower legs moving like pistons. He gazed once more at the doorway, as if he was contemplating leaving.

‘I know you’ve seen what’s in there,’ Trent said, gesturing towards the boxroom with his chin. ‘I want to know if you’re part of this. I need to know if you’re working with Xavier.’

The name had a startling effect. Viktor quit humming, mid-note. He blanched, tendrils of wet hair clinging to his face. He appeared to shrink a couple of sizes inside his damp clothes.

‘I need to know,’ Trent said. ‘Are you part of this?’

‘Of what?’ Viktor’s voice was scratchy and pinched. His tongue flicked out, eyes panicked, as though he were trying to take his words back.

‘The kidnap,’ Trent said.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

He blinked rapidly. Trent could have pushed harder, but the kid looked like he was about to wet his pants.

‘Why are you here?’ he asked. ‘Last time I spoke with your parents, they told me you were in a special retreat. A place where you could get the support you needed.’

‘You talk with my parents?’

‘Sometimes. They worry about you, Viktor. You must know that.’

Viktor shuddered and shook his head, as though bewildered. He freed his bad hand from the towel and stroked his throat. Trent found himself drawn to the bunched scars at his knuckles again. Viktor caught him looking and his expression soured.

‘I’ve been watching you,’ he said, lip curling, a flash of black in his eyes.

‘Watching me?’

‘For three weeks already.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ve seen the detective come here,’ he said, in a breathless rush, as if it proved something important. ‘Girard.’ Voice sneering. ‘You’re friends now?’

Trent didn’t like how things were shaping up. He knew that Viktor had suffered terribly because of his abduction. But something about the kid didn’t feel right at all. There was a curious glimmer in his eyes. A dark lustre, like he was participating in a whole other conversation. Trent remembered that he’d been seventeen years old when he was abducted. Legally, he was now an adult, but he was acting nothing like it.

‘Answer my questions, Viktor. Why have you been watching me?’

He smirked, a quick twitch of the muscles in his cheek, hair dangling wetly. ‘I always knew you were involved.’

‘Involved in what?’

‘The bad things that happened to me.’

Trent frowned. ‘I was involved as your negotiator.’

‘A negotiator who made sure I was held for almost a year. A negotiator who refused to pay the money that could have freed me much sooner. You weren’t my negotiator. You were my jailer.’

‘I don’t know what Xavier told you while you were being held but you can’t believe a word of it. You understand that, don’t you? He was manipulating you.’

‘My parents trusted you,’ Viktor said, as though the words tasted bitter in his mouth.

‘Do your parents know that you’re here? That you’re in Marseilles?’

‘They do not care.’

‘Of course they care. If you’d seen how traumatised they were during your ordeal—’

‘
They
were traumatised?’ Viktor snatched the towel from his shoulders and hurled it across the room. It slapped wetly against a wall. Sagged to the floor. ‘They should have paid. They should have got me out sooner.’

‘They did. They tried. You must know that. They must have told you.’

Viktor wasn’t listening. He was seething. Eyebrows deeply forked. Skin mottled, smudged blue around his eyes. ‘You worked with Girard,’ he said. ‘I saw him come here. Now I know what you were doing. Both of you, working with Xavier. Using me. Milking my parents. They were weak. They don’t see it. But I do. And now you’ve killed a man. You’re a criminal.’ His quivering blue lips peeled back over his teeth. They were yellowed, coated with saliva. One of his incisors was brown and decayed. Another consequence of his imprisonment, Trent supposed. Something else he could have had fixed. ‘That’s why I decided to shoot you. For revenge.’

Viktor’s intensity was unnerving. Trent found himself edging forward on his stool. He was afraid Viktor might surge up at him. Lash out in some way. Or maybe he’d attack himself in his frustration. Scratch at his own face. He looked capable of it. Looked capable of anything.

‘You’re wrong,’ Trent told him. ‘About everything.’

‘Not Girard.’

‘Girard is dead,’ he growled.

Viktor snorted. His nostril bubbled with mucus. He rubbed his thumb over the scar tissue on his knuckles. It had the look of a habitual gesture, like a religious man fingering prayer beads.

‘I don’t believe you. I saw him meet with you this morning.’

‘It’s true. Xavier’s gang have abducted someone. We were trying to get to them. But they killed Girard. They shot him just a few hours ago.’

Viktor’s eyes narrowed, his hair clinging to his temples like cracks in his skull. ‘How do you explain the man in there?’ he asked, thrusting his clasped hands in the direction of the boxroom. ‘I know you killed him. And you haven’t called the police.’

‘He was working with the gang, too. He was one of them. It was self-defence.’ The lie came easily. How could it not? Trent had spent enough time deceiving people during the past few days. ‘There was a ransom drop this morning. I couldn’t afford to be delayed. But the drop went bad.’

‘And the photos? The maps?’ Viktor shook his head. Bared his sickly teeth. ‘You’ve been following someone. Targeting them. You and Girard.’

‘
Protecting
them. It’s my job. I was trying to stop Xavier. I was working with Girard to track him down.’

Viktor rubbed at his scars. Hard, like he was trying to remove a stain. ‘You say he’s kidnapped someone? Who?’

‘Two people,’ Trent told him, and he realised as he said it that in a way it was true. ‘One is a wealthy businessman called Jérôme Moreau. The dead man in the room behind you was his bodyguard.’ Trent swallowed hard. The rest of what he had to say was lodged in his throat. ‘The other victim is my fiancée.’

‘Viktor, I need your help,’ Trent said. ‘I have to locate Xavier’s gang. This situation is out of control. We’re past ransoms here. People are getting killed.’

‘I can’t help you,’ Viktor muttered. ‘If what you say is true, you’ll have to pay him.’

‘We did. It didn’t work. And there’s no more cash. He has my fiancée, Viktor. Think about that. You know what they might do to her.’

Viktor lowered his face. He rubbed the scarring on his knuckles. ‘You love her?’

‘Very much.’

‘Then pay him. Whatever he asks. Find the money.’

Trent growled. He squeezed his skull in both hands. ‘You told Girard once that they kept you inside a cave.’

Viktor leaned forwards on the couch, shoulders rounded, hands tucked into his chest like he was trying to protect them. ‘I think so,’ he muttered. ‘A cave, or a cellar, maybe. An old one.’

‘Did they ever take you outside?’

Viktor peered at him myopically, as if somehow he’d found himself back in the dingy environment where Xavier’s gang had held him prisoner.

‘Sometimes,’ he whispered. ‘They covered my eyes, made me dizzy, so I wouldn’t remember the way. Once we were out in the open, they’d remove my blindfold. They took me to a small clearing in some trees. It was always night. Very dark.’

‘What about noises? Was there traffic near by? A train? Water?’

‘I heard a car one time. They covered my eyes and mouth before it was close.’

‘And when you were released? What about then?’

‘I told you before.’ Viktor shook his head, pulling his hands in towards his belly. ‘They drugged me. I didn’t come round until just before they dumped me in Nice.’

‘Did you see their faces ever?’

‘No. They always wore masks.’

‘Every day? They didn’t forget? Not even once?’

‘They never forgot anything. They were very organised. Very disciplined.’

‘Disciplined like soldiers?’

Perhaps they had a military background, Trent thought. It would make sense. The operation they’d conducted to abduct Jérôme had been slick. It had been the same story when they’d snatched Viktor. The men Trent had seen had been wearing army surplus jackets and they’d been adept with firearms. He’d come to appreciate how good they were at planning and carrying out their operations. Take the way they’d outmanoeuvred him during the ransom drop that morning. The way they’d outflanked Girard. Twice now.

‘I don’t know,’ Viktor said. ‘Maybe.’

‘Did they ever talk about themselves? Did they ever mention something that could indicate where they were from or how they knew each other?’

‘They never talked like that. They rarely spoke with each other in front of me. Usually, only one of them was with me at a time.’

‘Just one? Where were the others?’

‘I don’t know. They took it in turns to guard me. They switched every couple of hours.’

Like an organised watch, Trent thought. A troop rotation.

‘How many men?’

‘Four, I think.’

‘Four. Not five? Not three? You’re sure?’

‘I think it was four.’

That would fit, too. There’d been four men involved in the attack on Jérôme. One guy in the car and three guys armed with rifles. It could have been the same in the Calanques. There’d been two men on the rubber dinghy. Another man up on the cliffs with Girard. So where was the fourth guy? Watching Trent maybe. Or more likely he was back at their hideout guarding Jérôme.

‘Did Xavier guard you, too?’ Trent asked.

Viktor nodded abruptly, like a nervous twitch. ‘I hear his voice sometimes. Inside my head. Have you heard it? It sounds like a growl. An animal. It rumbles.’

‘I’ve heard it.’

Viktor swallowed. He raised his hand and twisted it so that the scar tissue was on show, like he was holding a rare artefact up to the light. ‘He was the one who did this,’ he said, and there was a strange kind of wonder in his voice.

Viktor had a faraway look in his eyes now. Trent got the impression that he’d zoned out of his current surroundings, as if he was back in the cave, or the cellar, or wherever it was that he’d been held. Perhaps he was remembering the flashes of intense pain that had accompanied his injuries. Maybe he was thinking about the moment before he lost his finger, the way it had moved and bent and extended, as any finger naturally would. Or maybe he was thinking about how it had been after his thumb was hacked off. The searing agony. The absence. How a part of him that had always been there was suddenly no longer attached and never would be again.

‘I’m sorry,’ Trent said.

Viktor blinked. He sniffed. ‘If this man has your fiancée . . .’ His words trailed away, the thought left incomplete.

Trent slumped. It felt as if something toxic had leaked from inside his brain and was sloshing around in his skull, gumming up his thinking. No, Xavier didn’t have Aimée. Not directly. But he could still sever Trent’s last potential link to her just as effectively as he’d snipped away Viktor’s finger. If he killed Jérôme, then that could be it for ever. Trent might never find her. He’d be haunted by her unknown fate for the rest of his life. The fate of their unborn child, too.

‘There’s nothing I can tell you,’ Viktor said. He picked at the callused skin that covered his knuckle. ‘You won’t find these men. You won’t catch them. Ever. I’m sorry, but it’s true. They could have changed their tactics. They could have a new hideout.’

They could, but Trent doubted it. A discreet base would be hard to find. Until it was jeopardised, there was no reason for the gang to try somewhere new.

His gaze slid sideways, towards the inert recording equipment. The silent telephone. He asked himself if Xavier might call again. He wondered if the gang would try to squeeze him for cash now that the Moreaus had paid them a generous fee. They knew that Jérôme had access to information he needed. They’d killed Girard. He was on his own now. He was desperate. Why wouldn’t they call? Why wouldn’t they contact him again?

Wait.

Contact him
again
.

Trent stared at Viktor. He scrambled down off his stool.

‘You’ve been watching me,’ he said.

Viktor ducked and raised his arms in front of his face, as though afraid that Trent might strike him.

‘No,’ Trent said, and pulled his arms down by the wrists. ‘This is good. You told me that you’ve been watching me. From where?’

Viktor delayed for a moment before answering. ‘An apartment,’ he said. ‘Across the square.’

‘How about this morning? Early? Somebody left something here for me. They broke the lock on my door to get inside. Did you see that happen?’

Viktor shook his head earnestly.

‘Come on. You must have seen something. Anything at all.’

He swallowed. His lips were moving as if he was rehearsing his words, testing them to see if they might trip him up.

‘There was the florist,’ he said.

‘Go on.’

‘It was just after five o’clock. The noise of a vehicle engine woke me. I thought it could be you returning home.’

‘And?’

‘And there was a florist’s van parked in the street outside your apartment. It blocked your front door. I didn’t see the driver until he got back inside the van and pulled away.’

‘How long was he there?’

‘Ten minutes, maybe.’

‘Ten minutes to drop off some flowers? I don’t think so.’

‘Your door was open a little when he left.’

‘Because he broke in. You saw that my lock was damaged, right? And what kind of florist makes deliveries at five o’clock in the morning?’

Viktor scanned the room. ‘Did you find flowers inside?’

‘Not flowers, no,’ Trent said. ‘He left a package for me.’ He paused. Concentrated hard. ‘Tell me, was the van branded in any way?’

Viktor nodded. He was confident about it. ‘I remember the name. I made a note.
Fleurs de Soleil
. ’

Trent was already moving. He was backing away towards the kitchen. He opened a drawer. Cleared some things. Then he removed a telephone directory. He cracked the spine. Riffled the pages with his thumb, ran his finger down through the listings.

‘It’s on Rue Pavillon.’ He looked up from the directory, the wafer-thin pages splayed over his wrist. ‘Would you recognise this man again?’

‘Perhaps,’ Viktor said, more guarded now.

‘Think about it. Think about his hairstyle. His clothes. His skin tone. The way he moved his body.’

Viktor gulped. He unzipped a pocket on the front of his hooded top. Reached his good hand inside. ‘I don’t need to remember. I have pictures.’

Trent dropped the phone book and came around from behind the counter and watched as Viktor wiped the moisture from a compact digital camera. He powered the camera up. It was blue with a zoom lens that slid out and whirred as the aperture opened. A tiny screen on the back blinked to life. Viktor twirled a dial and prodded a couple of buttons, then passed the camera to Trent, an expectant look on his face.

‘This is him?’

Viktor nodded.

Trent was looking at an angled shot, taken from above, of a thin, hippyish guy at the side of a small green delivery van. The van had a floral motif on the side and the name
Fleurs de Soleil
in gold lettering in a stylised, cursive script. The guy had long brown hair tied into a ponytail, a rangy beard, and he was wearing a green fleece top.

‘This is good, Viktor,’ Trent said. ‘This is excellent.’ He tossed the camera back to Viktor. Ruffled the kid’s hair. ‘Wait here. I’m going to get some things together.’

Trent didn’t take long. He didn’t want Viktor to become spooked or try to leave. He got changed very quickly, hauling on a pair of jeans, some socks and his desert boots, then fitting his shoulder holster over the vest he had on before buttoning a khaki shirt. He searched around in the base of the wardrobe for a canvas duffel bag he kept there. Carried the duffel into the bathroom and lifted his gloves out of the pool of water in the base of the tub and stuffed them inside the bag along with the shotgun. He steeled himself to enter the boxroom, doing his best not to look at the blood-spattered walls or Alain’s sorry corpse as he added ropes and cuffs, his torch and a serrated hunting knife to his stash. He located his Beretta and lifted up his shirt and slipped the pistol into the holster. He straightened his clothes, then closed the door on the room and inhaled deeply, as if cleaning his lungs. He moved through the living room into the kitchen and opened a drawer and fetched the Ruger and the spare cartridges, tossing them into his bag.

‘OK,’ he said, tightening the drawstring on the duffel. ‘We’re ready.’

‘For what?’ Viktor had been looking sickly already, but right now his skin was pallid and slack.

‘To find Xavier’s delivery man. To ask him some questions.’

Trent hefted his bag of equipment. He advanced on the sofa. Placed a hand on Viktor’s damp shoulder. Partly a reassuring gesture, partly a way of digging his fingers into Viktor’s bony frame and lifting him to his feet. The kid’s knees almost buckled. Trent spun him round and flattened his hand on his back and steered him along the hallway. He opened the front door. Stopped abruptly.

Stephanie Moreau was standing there, adjusting the fit of the blue polka-dot sundress she had on. Her sunglasses were large and round and dark. She was holding a clutch purse in front of her waist. A familiar red sports car blocked the road behind her, engine running.

She must have got Trent’s address from Jérôme’s lawyer, too.

‘I have to talk to you.’ Her lips were pinched and her cheeks hollowed out. She flipped her sunglasses up on top of her head. Her eyes were intent, her gaze piercing.

Trent guided Viktor past her and onto the flagstone pavement. He pulled his front door closed behind him as best he could.

‘Do you have a car?’ he asked Viktor.

‘It’s over there,’ he said, and pointed off towards the nursery.

‘Take this.’ Trent handed him the duffel. ‘Wait for me. I won’t be long.’