28

CONSUELA REPLACED THE phone and turned to Delacroix. Her slanted eyes were glittering. She started to speak then paused as the church clock began chiming the hour.

Delacroix turned to the night-darkened window. The rare sound of footsteps could be heard passing, receding into the distance. The room was stuffy, smelt of his cologne, old cooking and cigarettes. A dull lamp in one corner cast an arc of insipid orange light over the cast-iron stove and old-fashioned china sink.

The last chime on the clock sounded.

‘He’s on his way,’ Consuela said, her smile ruminant and catlike.

Delacroix nodded.

‘So considerate of him,’ she went on, her eyes unfocused in thought, ‘to call at my villa to announce his arrival. But I imagine he had to check there first. Frederico told him where to come. It seems he already knew about this place, so we must assume he knows the layout too. I estimate it will take him thirty-five minutes to get here, but we’ll work to twenty.’ Her gaze went to Delacroix and rested there as she quietly contemplated the night. ‘As you know, I don’t expect to live through this,’ she said, ‘so when it’s over take the car, drive to Milan and be on the first plane out. Your payment will be waiting when you feel it safe to return to Buenos Aires.’

Delacroix was fascinated by her. She was so calm it was scary. He slid a pack of Gitanes across the plastic tablecloth towards him. Even with twenty minutes they had time to spare. He knew what he had to do.

He lit the cigarette, puffed smoke into the pungent air and remarked, ‘You look better with the wig.’

Consuela raised a uninterested eyebrow. That he had seen her without it the day before didn’t concern her. Her eyes glowed with a slow, purposeful fervour.

The most chilling of all insanities, Delacroix mused, was one that was as controlled as hers. It was so reasoned a court of law would probably declare her sane.

‘I’m going upstairs now,’ she said. ‘Be sure to put out the light before you leave.’

She mounted the narrow, winding stairs, turning on lights as she went, then off again as she reached the next landing. She moved unhurriedly towards the attic door then stopped for a moment to pat her hair into place.

She pressed down on the handle and the heavy door, weighted by the dresser, swung slowly open. The light inside was on. The room was quite empty.

She gave a small sigh of satisfaction then closed the door behind her. She walked over to the bed and looked down at the blood. There wasn’t as much as she’d hoped for, but it would suffice. She turned the sheet over. There was more there. She positioned it so it could be seen then went to make herself comfortable in a shabby armchair.

The minutes ticked by.

She wondered if Marie-Thérèse was watching her. Marie-Thérèse, so many years walled up here alone in this room. If all went to plan they would spend their lives everlasting together. It seemed fitting.

Some while later the clock outside chimed the half hour. Consuela’s eyes moved to the corner. There was a faint scratching noise. She smiled.

‘Marie-Thérèse!’ she gasped, clutching her throat. ‘Marie-Thérèse!’ Let me go.’

She laughed. She’d scared Santini half to death with that once when he’d come to let her out. Sinner that he was, he was still a god-fearing Catholic. He believed in the possession of evil spirits. She’d spent four months in a convent after that.

She picked up the gun beside her, turned it over in her hands then laid it on her lap in the folds of her skirt. She didn’t think she’d need it, she was quite certain Jake was going to kill her, but it was there, just in case.

He’d be here soon and she idly wondered whether she would get the chance to tell him about Louisa before he pulled the trigger.

There were no lights on the Mercedes as it crept slowly, almost silently into the village. It came to a halt in front of the Maine. The engine stopped. Nothing, nobody, moved. The night was breathless and still.

Jake got out. His eyes moved across the roof of the car to the man getting out the other side.

They waited a moment, then began the descent down buckled, stone steps into a narrow, cobbled street.

The only witness to their presence was a fat, pampered cat sprawled drowsily on a doorstep. Ornate lamps pooled soggy light into the shadows. Minutes later they were at the door of the second to last house. No light seeped through the shutters. No sound came from within.

Jake looked at the man beside him, slid a gun from his pocket and nodded. The man gingerly twisted the doorknob. The latch clicked, the door opened and Jake sprang inside. Everything was still. Behind him the man flicked a switch and the room filled with a sickly orange glow.

Jake edged around the table, moving towards the stairs. The man stayed where he was, guarding the door.

Jake glanced back over his shoulder. His face was pale, his eyes black and empty. Again he nodded, then turning he started quietly up the stairs.

The man turned off the light and closed the door. He waited one minute then crept silently across the kitchen.

Jake took each room at a time. Everything was as motionless as a picture. The gun was steady in his hand. His heartbeat thrummed in his ears. His muscles were tensed, his eyes alert. He reached the attic door and dropped the gun to his side. He turned the handle and the door swung open.

The first thing he saw was blood on the empty bed. His eyes zipped across the room.

Consuela smirked.

He raised the gun with both hands, aiming it straight at her head. ‘Where is she?’ he said.

The cellar was as black as Russian earth. A single candle flickered in one corner. Louisa was hunched beside it, still naked, her wrists and ankles bound with razor sharp wire, her face bloodied and swollen. Her cheeks were caked with dry tears, saliva dribbled from the corner of her mouth. Terror had made her pee in the dirt beneath her. Jake had arrived, they’d heard him come in. She knew the plan. She knew what was going to happen.

Delacroix was at the top of the steps by the door. She could just make out his crouched figure in the dim light. His gun was still pointing at her. He was waiting for the signal. The instant a gun fired upstairs Delacroix would kill her.

Jake was waiting. Neither of them moved. Consuela’s smile was waning.

‘What have you done with her?’ Jake said.

‘Who? Martina?’ Consuela enquired.

Jake flinched and Consuela’s smile returned.

‘You know who.’

Consuela nodded. ‘You know, I’m wondering,’ she said, crossing her legs and interlacing her fingers, ‘if you’ve yet realized that were it not for your fortunate alibi with the police at the time of Danny’s murder, you would be in prison now and Martina would still be alive.’

‘Then that proves you’re not as clever as you think.’

She shrugged. ‘Martina’s death means nothing to me. I don’t think you can say the same.’

Jake’s face was ashen, it was the only sign of the insupportable grief he had yet to face. ‘You know you’re not getting out of this alive,’ he said, ‘so for pity’s sake let her go.’

‘Pity’s sake?’ she repeated.

‘What difference does it make to you if she lives?’ he seethed.

‘To me? None. But it does to you. Oh, I don’t expect you’re capable of loving her now, not after the trauma of Martina’s death, but being the man of honour that you are …’

‘For Christ’s sake, woman, aren’t two deaths enough?’

‘Three,’ she corrected. ‘You’re forgetting Aphrodite. But she doesn’t really count in the same way, does she? I had her killed because she saw Frederico breaking into Morandi’s office. Not quite the same thing.’

‘What will it take to let Louisa go?’ he said.

Consuela looked deep into his eyes, smiling the smile of a woman who knows she can’t lose. ‘Make love to me one last time,’ she said.

A look of unmitigated disgust twisted Jake’s face. ‘I’d rather die,’ he hissed.

‘Or you’d rather Louisa die,’ she amended. ‘Tell me, can you remember what it was like to make love to Martina?’

Her words seared into the heart of his pain.

‘She loved you so much, you know?’

His strong, handsome face was taut and unmoving.

‘Do you remember how happy you were, the two of you? It was so hard for her, being parted from you.’

Jake’s eyes bored in hers.

‘It wasn’t so hard for you though, was it? It took a while, but you found someone else.’ She laughed softly.

More seconds ticked silently by.

‘She knew you had someone else. She knew about all the women you betrayed her with. She died knowing that. She died knowing that you no longer loved her.’

The scene on the Mexican hillside was replaying vividly in his mind. He held onto it, reliving the joy and the love in his wife’s face as she’d run towards him. She’d known he still loved her. The pain was crippling him.

‘What do you think of your daughter?’ Consuela asked. ‘How old is she now? Two? Almost three.’ She smiled an indulgent grandmother smile. ‘They tell me she’s like Martina. Is that true?’

He didn’t answer.

‘So I’m told she thinks one of the kidnappers is her father. She calls him Daddy. And why shouldn’t she? He was there in her mommy’s bed every morning.’

‘I know what you trying to do, Consuela,’ he said, ‘but it’s not going to work. I have no intention of spending my life in jail for you. Oh sure, I’m going to kill you, but before I do I’m going to tell you why I won’t go to jail.’

She raised a curious eyebrow.

‘You’ve got a gun sitting right there in your lap. If your prints aren’t on that gun now they will be after I shoot you – in self-defence.’

She nodded. ‘And what about Louisa?’

‘I’ll find her.’

Consuela laughed and shook her head. ‘You think you’re so smart, don’t you? Well go on, go ahead and shoot me. Then go find her. She won’t be …’ Her head suddenly jerked to one side as two shots exploded into the room.

‘You fool,’ Consuela said as she realized he’d fired past her. ‘You bloody fool.’

Louisa’s wide, petrified eyes looked at Delacroix. He was at the bottom of the steps, three feet away. His face was masked in darkness. All she could see was the gun. Nauseous fear strangled her. She didn’t want to die, but knew beyond doubt that she was going to. They’d heard the gun shots, Delacroix’s finger was tightening on the trigger. Beyond the terror she felt a strange, unworldly sensation. She was drifting from reality, moving into a timeless void.

When it came, as the gun exploded and she fell back against the wall, for a fleeting, eternal second she was surprised to feel no pain. Just the jolt of her body hitting the wall and the echoing sound of the gunshot … But no pain, no pain at all.

*

At the sound of a muted gun shot Jake’s head whipped round. He stared into the empty landing.

Consuela watched him, waiting for him to register what had happened. Downstairs a door opened then closed. The muffled sound of someone moving about reached them.

A few minutes later Jake’s eyes narrowed as he saw a shadow move at the end of the hall. He turned back to Consuela.

She was holding the gun loosely in her hands and smiling.

‘If you don’t have the courage to shoot me, Jake,’ she said, raising the gun, ‘then I’ll …’ She stopped, her face draining as a stranger stepped into the room.

Her grip tightened on the gun. Her eyes were darting between them. She lifted the gun higher, turning it ready to fire. It flew out of her hands as three bullets tore into her.

With his finger still pressed tightly on the trigger Jake watched her contort. He held her eyes as she glared up at him. There was no emotion in his face.

Consuela tried to speak. The air bubbled in her lungs. Blood pumped from the wounds in her chest. Her teeth bared and her eyes gleamed like a demon’s. Then Jake’s voice drove into the heart of her rage as he told her what by now she had guessed – Frederico had betrayed her.

Her fingers clawed at the chair as she tried to heave herself from it. Blood spewed from her mouth.

The two men watched her impassively as she fell from the chair. Her fingers reached towards the gun. The other man kicked it out of the way.

Downstairs the house was coming alive with noise. Doors banged open. Heavy footsteps thundered on the stairs. Someone shouted. Jake turned. Two men barged past him into the room. Jake looked at the other man who was looking at him. Then throwing his gun on the bed Jake pushed his way past the police who were crowding the way and ran down the stairs.

The door to the cellar was open. More police were inside. Jake forced his way through, stepping over Delacroix’s body. Louisa was slumped in the corner, naked and pale and bleeding where the wires had cut into her.

Kneeling beside her Jake turned her towards him. Her eyes were closed, her face was bruised and cut. He lifted her carefully into his arms, stood and carried her from the cellar. As he passed he was barely aware of someone putting a blanket over her, he was back on a Mexican hillside, carrying his wife in his arms and feeling the love and pain and grief pull through him like a devastating tide.

A detective cleared the way and Jake carried Louisa out into the night. As he walked down the street, heading for the square, two policemen followed.

Erik came sprinting towards him, Bob hard on his heels. ‘Jake!’ Erik cried. ‘Jake, is she all right?’

‘She’s alive,’ Jake answered.

Amongst the police standing at the foot of the steps he spotted Frederico. Their eyes met. Jake nodded briefly then walked on.

A rescue vehicle was parked next to his. When he reached it he handed Louisa over. She was alive, traumatized and unconscious, but alive. He couldn’t go with her. It was over now. It was all at an end.

He watched as the rescue vehicle drove out of the village. Inside he was numb. There would be time later to feel. Too much time.

As Erik’s hand touched his shoulder he turned. They looked at each other in the grey light. There was no need for words. Each man knew what the other was feeling.

‘I’m going to the Valhalla,’ Jake said.

Erik nodded.

Bob walked to the Mercedes and opened the passenger door for Jake to get in.

Erik watched the tail lights disappear through the police cordon at the edge of the village then turned as Frederico came over to him.

‘I’ve just told the police where to find Marianne,’ he said. ‘She’s at Jake’s house in the Var.’

Erik stared at him.

‘They didn’t kill her,’ Frederico said.

Erik turned as the man who had gone into the house with Jake walked towards him. ‘Fernando?’ he said.

Fernando nodded.

The two men looked at each other, seemingly oblivious to the commotion going on around them. ‘Who are you?’ Erik said.

Fernando’s eyes slanted. ‘I think you know,’ he said.

Erik nodded. He’d long suspected that Fernando was a Federal Agent.

‘Who told the cops where to come?’ Erik said.

Fernando’s eyebrows flicked an admission.

‘But not in time to stop Jake.’

‘He killed her in self-defence.’

Erik didn’t know if that was true, nor did he care. ‘I think one of us should call Jake’s old man,’ he said.

‘You go ahead,’ Fernando told him. ‘There’s a bit of clearing up to do around here. Where can I find you when I’m through?’

‘At whichever hospital they’ve taken Louisa to.’

‘OK.’ He paused. ‘You’ve been a good friend to him, Erik.’

‘He didn’t deserve what happened to him.’

‘No man deserves that,’ Fernando said. Then added, ‘It’s going to be a long time.’

‘Yes,’ Erik said, ‘I know.’

Sarah came in on the first flight in the morning. Jean-Claude was waiting for her at the airport and drove her straight to the hospital in Grasse. Louisa was waiting for them, ready to leave.

They returned to Jean-Claude’s where Didier had prepared a meal. No one was particularly hungry, but they made a quiet, valiant effort. They sat, as they had just a week ago, on the wooden terrace overlooking the lawn. Everything looked as it always had. Nothing had changed, neither the sounds nor the smells, nor the clinging, claustrophobic heat of the sun.

Louisa’s face, discoloured by the cuts and bruises Delacroix had given her, looked so fragile and vulnerable that Sarah longed to hug her. But she knew better than to fuss over her right now. It was a long road ahead, a very long road that would begin that afternoon when she would have to relive the terrible ordeal of the past seventy-two hours for the police. After that there was the wait until she was free to return to London, the counselling that would surely have to come and, worst of all, the press. The story had been all over the papers that morning, reporters even now were clamouring to get past the police and up the lane to the villa. And for all they knew telephoto lenses were peering at them from the trees even as they ate.

Louisa picked up her wine and catching Sarah’s eye she smiled. Immediately her hand went to her mouth as a cut on her lip reopened. She laughed, shakily, and grabbed a napkin to dab it. ‘Don’t look so worried,’ she said huskily. ‘I’m fine. All in one piece. We’ll be able to go home soon.’

Sarah’s eyes moved to Jean-Claude. They smiled at each other, then catching sight of the infamous, interminably nosy Mrs Name-Drop striding by with Rudy while making an intent, totally unconvincing study of the sky they all burst out laughing. It relieved the tension for a while, but as they talked Sarah was still watching Jean-Claude. What would they have done without him? This kind, sensitive man who had taken them in as though they were family. He would be with Louisa this afternoon, translating for the police as she gave her statement and no doubt doing everything in his power to make it as painless for her as he could.

When they’d finished eating Louisa wandered down to the pool and stood staring into it. After a while Sarah went to join her.

They were quiet for a long time. Then a lump rose in Sarah’s throat as Louisa’s hand slipped into hers.

‘Want to talk?’ Sarah said softly.

Louisa’s eyes were still gazing sightlessly into the clear, sparkling water. ‘I’m not sure,’ she whispered. Then looking up she smiled. ‘Would you do something for me?’ she said. ‘Would you be there when I leave the police station?’

‘Of course,’ Sarah answered.

It was around six in the evening when Louisa and Jean-Claude finally came out of a back door of the main police headquarters in Cannes. Sarah was sitting in her car, illegally parked outside. She watched as Louisa spoke to Jean-Claude, kissed him on either cheek then walked towards her. Sarah knew where they were going. She had no idea if it was the right thing to do, but she wasn’t going to argue, all she was going to do was drive.

As they headed out of Cannes along the coast road, Louisa said, ‘Did you see Erik this afternoon?’

Sarah nodded.

‘How was he?’

‘He seemed OK. Tired. Exhausted. But on the whole, OK.’

‘Where did he spend the night?’

‘He spent most of it at the hospital with you and Marianne, the rest with the police.’

Louisa turned and looked out of the window. She didn’t ask where Erik had spent the morning, she could guess.

The sun was blazing a glorious deep, red glow over the Mediterranean, the rippling waves looked syrupy and peaceful.

When at last they reached their destination Sarah parked the car and they walked together through the milling evening crowds. After a while Sarah stopped outside a café.

‘I’ll wait here,’ she said. ‘You go on ahead.’

Louisa smiled her gratitude and Sarah watched her turn and walk on.

Louisa continued to the edge of the harbour then stood gazing out to sea. In the wonderful light of the setting sun the Valhalla looked as magnificent and celestial as its name.

The great hull rocked gently in the waves, the vast white sails flapped proudly on their masts.

She knew he had been sailing last night, knew in the weeks and months to come that he would do a lot of sailing, seeking his solace in the great blue expanse that he loved so dearly. Her heart was filled with compassion and longing. She wished there were something she could do to ease his pain, but knew there was nothing.

She wondered if he was on board now. It didn’t matter. He would be gone soon, returning to a life she could only imagine. And she …? She smiled. She didn’t know yet what she was going to do, the only thing she was sure of was that she would never forget him. And bidding him a silent farewell in her heart she turned back to where Sarah was waiting.