Hands of the Traitor (4 page)

A young man with a shaved head
diverted the blow, catching hold of Henk's wrist and forcing him
down into the soil. The man snatched at the knife. The Dutchman
used his feet as he lay on his back, kicking the man in the stomach
and sending him backwards into the crowd of parents and children.
The knife flew end over end high into the air in a flashing arc,
embedding itself in a woman's shoulder as it landed, like a
knife-throwing act that ended in tragedy.

Her scream seemed to cause rage more
than panic. A tall man seized it by the handle, slashing the
woman's neck as he pulled it away. The woman's husband darted
forward to grab hold of the blade but it caught his wrist. Blood
shot across people's faces before they could turn away.

Turning away seemed to be an action
that was noticeably absent. Everyone wanted to be involved in the
ensuing fight. The Dutchman's knife wasn't the only weapon around.
Several blades flashed in the sunlight, their owners spurred into
frenzy by the sight of blood. Or maybe it was the foul smell that
drifted across the hysterical pack.

The children, used to the rough and
tumble of playground life, were eager to be participants rather
than spectators. A child psychiatrist would have been surprised to
learn that the girls were as aggressive as the boys, perhaps even
more so. But the adults had the knives, and the children became the
sacrificial victims.

Then as suddenly as it started
the air seemed to clear. People stood in horror, staring at the
bodies on the ground. As the crowd began to drift away the sirens
of the
gendarmes
' cars could be heard. Henk lay where he had fallen, a gold
ring clutched tightly in his fist. Rigor mortis would set in soon,
making it hard to remove the ring from his grasp.

*

A CRAZED knifeman outside a supermarket
would have sounded sufficiently gruesome to ensure at least a
fleeting mention in the foreign press. But a fight involving over
thirty shoppers, seventeen of them children, sent the weekend
newsrooms into a frenzy. There were six deaths and fourteen serious
injuries. The authorities had already sealed the site to prevent
further digging.

The story had all the ingredients of a
nightmare movie. Knife blow after knife blow, so the eyewitnesses
claimed.

There were fathers trying to
protect their screaming children, fighting with each other, and the
herd falling as they ran. Stones and iron bars from the
construction site used as weapons. Finally the most sensational
part of the story: the mob seizing the knife, and the Dutchman
hacked to death by his own weapon. All for a gold ring. Someone
insisted it was a gold candle
.

Captain Lacoste, the local
chief of the
gendarmes
, proudly showed the press a signet ring found in the
Dutchman's hand. He allowed anyone with a suitable lens to take
close-ups. Yes, he was investigating to find out if it had any
bearing on the riot, but he denied finding anything resembling a
gold candle. He explained that the fight demonstrated the dangers
of greed and envy, as well as the hazards of treasure hunting. The
local reporter reckoned that Lacoste was an idiot.

Chapter
3

England
-- Monday

"THAT FRENCH girl you've been going out
with for the past week. Isn't she a medical doctor or
something?"

"She's a woman, Ken, not a girl. A
nurse. And for the record, Zoé Champanelle doesn't do old men's
piles, so don't bother getting in touch."

"Who's having a bad day
then?"

"And I'm not exactly going out with
her. We've been round the shops, and I've taken her for a couple of
meals."

"And?"

"And nothing. What were you
expecting?"

"I hope you're not looking for
consolation for Louise dumping you. I thought wedding bells were in
the air."

"Louise didn't dump me. We both agreed
... Yes, okay, she dumped me. And I don't want to rush in and make
the same mistake with someone else."

"Where's the Matt Rider I took on -- the
man who knows what he wants and doesn't stop until he gets
it?"

"That's work, Ken. Love is more
difficult. Don't you think so?"

"No idea, kiddo. Mrs. Habgood and I
aren't exactly..."

"See, you're calling her Mrs. Habgood.
I don't want a relationship like that." Matt opened the cupboard
and pulled out two mugs. "Coffee?"

"I don't think the missus would want
any sort of relationship with you."

"I'm glad. From what you tell
me..."

Ken changed the subject abruptly.
"Someone at the club said your grandfather's been in
trouble."

"Word certainly gets around. It was
nearly two weeks ago. They've moved him now."

"After he had a go at someone in Saint
Monica's?"

Matt switched on the percolator and
spooned coffee into the filter. "He only tried to kill the man who
shared his room. Took an apple and pushed it into the old fellow's
mouth. Got it halfway down his throat. The matron said my
grandfather was shouting something about gold rings when she got to
him. The other man wasn't able to shout anything, until they got
the apple out."

"Senility is a terrible thing, Matt."
Ken opened the top drawer of his desk and removed a folder of
accounts. Then he nodded towards the percolator. "I'll have white.
So where's your grandfather now?"

"The South Memorial Hospital for a few
weeks. He's not senile. It's some major mental disorder." Matt
found a half empty carton of UHT milk in the cupboard and sniffed
it cautiously. "I'm still not allowed to see him." He put the milk
down quickly. "They've hidden all the fruit at Saint Monica's --
and the knives -- in case anyone else has a go."

"Alec Rider, the Killer of Saint
Monica's Home for the Elderly." Ken closed his eyes and shook his
head. "You've got one hell of a granddad there, kiddo."

"Did you see the news about the killings
near Calais on Saturday? It seems everyone had it in for a
Dutchman, and all for one lousy gold ring. I told Zoé Champanelle
there has to be a connection with my grandfather."

Ken pulled some hand-written
notes from the folder, but paused to look up. At least he was
listening. "You said
Zoé Champanelle
with a certain something in your voice,
you randy old dog. I hope you're not stricken with her. It's a bit
soon to initiate a new girlfriend into your family's grisly past,
isn't it?"

"She's not my girlfriend. And her
interest is purely professional." Matt realized how pathetic he
sounded. And why was he denying what he felt for Zoé? Louise was
out of his hair now.

"What's your grandfather got to do
with Saturday's massacre in France, kiddo? Was he there on an old
folks outing?"

Matt checked the percolator. "Granddad
brought back a signet ring from a commando raid in the war. Still
wears it as a souvenir. It's got the initials D and C, and an
engraved eye -- just like the ring the Dutchman found."

"It might be a
coincidence."

"My grandfather says he met two
Americans on a Nazi flying bomb site in France. I think it was
1944. They had a case of small gold cylinders. Granddad unscrewed
one of the caps, and he reckons it contained a poison gas that made
him go ape."

"The Americans were supplying
the Nazis with
poison gas?
" Ken closed the folder.

"Granddad says it all got hushed up by
the military."

"That doesn't surprise me." Ken leaned
back in his chair. "I guess everyone wanted to live in peace when
the war ended. So maybe your granddad wasn't making things
up."

"What do you think?"

"I think your family should have
looked into it years ago."

Matt shrugged. "No one believed him.
Not the army, and certainly not my family. I guess no one wanted to
know what happened to Granddad in France."

Ken laughed. "Not even you, as a
cynical PI?"

"Not even me; but maybe there's still
time to find out." Matt switched off the percolator and poured two
mugs of coffee. "The milk smells terrible. Yours will have to be
black."

"As long as it's hot."

"If I can find out what happened in
the war I can tell the hospital specialist. Maybe he'll be able to
sort out the right treatment. I'm not prepared to let them keep
Granddad on sedation for the rest of his life."

"You're not taking this investigation
up full time, kiddo?" Ken sounded anxious.

"Can you spare me for the rest of the
day?"

Ken sighed. "Grandfathers don't live
for ever. Mine died years ago and I still miss him. Okay, the
sooner you sort this out the better. I don't want you mooching
around here all day like a constipated cat. Where are you going to
start?"

Matt used his thumb to break through the
crust that had formed on top of the sugar over the weekend. He
passed the bowl to Ken. "My grandfather said the two Americans were
called Heinman. Someone called Jason Heinman was on the news a few
days ago. He's the new president of Domestic Chemicals
International in New York. The company is about to launch a cancer
drug."

"So?" asked Ken.

"Domestic Chemicals International.
DCI. Get it?"

Ken shrugged. "No."

"Get your brain in gear, Ken," said
Matt in a voice of feigned impatience. "There's a D, a C and an eye
on the rings, and a Heinman is running a pharmaceutical company
called DCI."

Ken nodded. "So you think maybe the
Heinmans were running it in the war?"

"If they were, it proves my
grandfather knows what he's talking about. I've looked up the DCI
web site. You have to register if you want full access, and I
didn't want them to know I'm interested. But they list their
products. Poison gas isn't one of them."

"Have they got an email address for
general inquiries?"

"Yes, but they'll still want to know who I
am. Anyway, I can't ask them if one of the Heinmans had his head
blown off in France."

"What are you going to do if your
grandfather's guilty of murder?"

Matt stayed silent for a moment. He'd
already thought of that one. "I just want to know whether he's
telling the truth or not. Maybe Granddad butchered everyone on the
site, and that's what screwed him up."

Ken wiped the rim of his mug with his
fingers before taking a sip. "How about trying Louise?"

"What for?" Matt started his coffee.
The French beans had kept considerably better than the
milk.

"Louise works for the Chamber of Commerce.
Ask her to find an American trade organization. They should be able
to tell you if anyone called Heinman from DCI died in France in the
war -- if you write a confidential letter." Ken began to sound
unexpectedly keen. "Don't bother with emails. No one answers them.
Use Habgood letter heading. People respond to Habgood
Securities."

"There is another avenue to
explore."

"Go on." Ken put his mug down and
pulled a face. "This is terrible. Get some instant next time you're
at the shops and do us all a favor."

Matt ignored the criticism. The coffee was
an expensive blend, bought by him with Ken's petty cash. "There's a
French girl -- Sophie Bernay. My grandfather thinks he killed her.
He keeps hearing a grenade going off in his sleep. If I could find
her, she'd maybe remember what happened."

"Not if she's dead she won't remember
anything," commented Ken dryly.

"If she's dead I don't have to tell
him."

"Wouldn't any French woman do? Get
your Zoé to pretend she's Sophie. See if it helps your grandfather
remember a few more things."

"I couldn't live with
myself."

"And now you want to find a beautiful
French mademoiselle called Sophie? Isn't one enough for you?" Ken
gave a dirty laugh.

"I'm not sure how Sophie Bernay would
look. Granddad says he has this memory of Sophie's face covered in
blood. He had a knife as well as a grenade, so he
may..."

"I think I get the point," said Ken.
"And your lovely French girlfriend doesn't mind you chasing after
another woman?"

"Zoé
isn't
my girlfriend. Anyway, Sophie would be in
her late seventies -- at best. Perhaps you'd like to be
introduced."

Ken ignored the offer. "If you want my
advice I'd go for the French woman and leave the Heinmans alone. No
one messes with big American companies." He thought for a moment,
tapping his uneven teeth with a pen. Then he pointed the pen at
Matt. "I don't know if it will help, but I had an uncle who had an
urge to trace a family that sheltered him in the war. He wrote to
the mayors of a few French towns in the area."

"And?"

"He never heard anything more as it
happened." Ken sucked the end of his pen. "But we always thought it
was a good idea. Do you know where your granddad had his
ordeal?"