I picked up a coffee and caught the 17.40 from Paddington via Stroud and arrived back in Cheltenham nearly three hours later due to problems on the line at Reading. Four days had passed since McCallen had disappeared. The longer it dragged on without negotiation or, more commonly in terrorist circles, a threat, the greater the likelihood that she would be killed. I hoped, for her sake, that she was drugged. Spirited by nature, she’d be less inclined to give her captor or captors’ grief.
Titus rattled me. He knew things about McCallen and me and yet he seemed to be boxing in the dark. I didn’t know whether or not he was bluffing. I didn’t know whether he was on official business or simply watching her back. I couldn’t work out why he’d left me to run when he appeared to tie me to McCallen through the Montpellier rental. What was his game?
As for the hits, there was no secret club where button men hung out and compared notes. Its shadowy world relied on secrecy. It also relied on a code of honour, along the Mafia lines of omertà, or keeping your mouth shut about criminal activities as well as targets. It was just possible somebody knew something that somebody else had heard about, which was what I hoped Darren Marriott would be able to unearth. Find the shooter, the bomber and murderer and then follow the lead to the guy issuing orders. I let out a weary sigh. Having been here several times before, I’d sniffed out every lead to Billy Squeeze – bending ears, greasing palms, threatening reprisals – and look where it had got me.
And now others were paying the price.
I walked back home from the train station, dumped my gear, washed and changed into a suit and tie, put on an overcoat and leather gloves, and was back out around ten, the night still young. I went straight to the rental. I expected signs of forced entry, blood on the carpet, proof of a scuffle, overturned chairs and smashed ornaments. The place was as silent as a monastery at prayer. Everything was as I’d last left it. McCallen had not been abducted from my property. On this, Titus was wrong.
Working a hunch, I cut into town and back to Cambray Place and Coco’s. A group of eight guys built like rugby prop forwards piled out of the basement restaurant and, planning to make a night of it, headed upstairs to the cocktail lounge. I joined their party, inserting myself at the back for long enough to get a good eyeful. Sure enough, Simone was sitting, her back to me, wearing a crepe dress of dusky pink, long legs crossed and to the side, pink heels to match. Was she waiting to pick up some other unsuspecting male, or was she hoping to corner me?
Slipping away, I crossed to the opposite side of the square and took up residence in a pub, the bar seven deep with drinkers, my face glued to the window, watching. It took Simone Fabron a little over an hour to emerge. I watched as she paused on the highest step, fastening the top button of her coat, looking right and then left, before setting off for the main drag. I gave her ten seconds and went after her.
She walked with an easy gait down the High Street, turning left and finally veering into Montpellier Street. No nightclubs, no late-night bars or stop-offs tonight. She didn’t so much as exchange words with a passing stranger, speak on a mobile phone, collect or exchange a thing.
Taking a detour, she headed into another main road and up the incline towards the Montpellier Chapter, a restored and extended villa, its large glass-fronted conservatory the most visible feature. To me, a chapter is either a division in a book or a division in Hell’s Angels. In Cheltenham, it’s a posh hotel. Fabron was either staying there or visiting. If the former, I had her down for a penthouse kind of girl. She might be a minimalist but she appreciated glamour. The other thing about the Chapter was that the second-floor penthouse suite has its own private staircase and entrance, perfect for those engaged in things they shouldn’t be.
I watched as Simone crossed the car park and approached a vehicle. I hung back in the shadows and clocked exactly where it was. She bleeped open the passenger door, reached inside the glove compartment, took something out and, locking the vehicle, walked away. As soon as she was out of sight, I checked out the Alfa-Romeo 4C, a fast car that rivalled the Porsche, and made a mental note of the registration.
I crept up a set of stone steps, passed through a double set of softly-sprung doors and hung back in the lobby. Ahead, an open-plan reception area, minimalist, with a single laptop balanced on what looked like a piece of contemporary sculpture instead of a desk. Within earshot, I overheard a brief exchange between Simone and a male receptionist, after which Simone walked down a corridor and stepped straight into a lift. I waited until the doors closed then breezed through the reception area as though I was a paying guest and took the next lift to the second floor.
The entrance to the suite offered totally privacy. I listened hard and hesitated. There was no way of knowing whether or not she’d simply walked inside without a knock or greeting, or whether she’d called out ‘Honey, I’m home.’ Estimating it might take her ten or so minutes to take off her coat, kick off her shoes and slide into something more comfortable, I counted down and tapped on the door.
‘Hello, who is it?’ She called out.
‘It’s me, Joe.’
‘Wait one second.’ Hundreds of seconds later, she’d still not emerged. As I was about to tap again, the door flew open. Simone was standing there, fully clothed in her pink dress, high collared and prim. Her hands rested on her hips and although she did her best to scowl, her eyes told me that she was pleased to see me.
I smiled. ‘Am I forgiven?’ My only intention was to get inside the room. After that I expected straight answers to straight questions.
Her hands dropped. She broke into a magnificent smile and reaching out, grabbed my tie and yanked me into the room, caveman style. I kicked the door closed behind me and before she could get down to business, I grabbed hold of her and pinned her to the wall. Her breasts heaved beneath me and, misreading my motive, the tip of her tongue darted out, touching her top lip. She gave me a slow, wanton smile. It took half a second for her to register that urgent sex was not what I had in mind.
‘We need to talk,’ I said.
‘You bastard,’ she snarled. ‘Let go of me.’
‘Not until you tell me about your drugs operation.’
Her eyes shot wide. ‘What?’
‘You heard.’
She wriggled in my grip. ‘Are you crazy? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Yes you do.’
‘I will scream the hotel down if you don’t take your hands off me.’
‘Scream away. I’m sure the management would love to know that they have a drugs smuggler for a guest.’
‘I am not a drugs smuggler.’
‘I’m only surprised there were no bowls of cocaine alongside the condoms at your party.’
She flashed with temper. ‘Are you deaf and blind as well as stupid? I don’t allow drugs at my parties. It is the most important rule. It’s why I make a point of checking.’
All is well. No cameras, no coke.
I eased my grip slightly. She panted with fury. Her eyes like polished black seed pearls narrowed with suspicion. ‘For a property developer, you ask very strange questions.’
True, and I was about to fire another. ‘Know a man called China Hayes?’
‘Chinois, what sort of a name is that?’
‘The sort you swindle.’
‘You are talking nonsense.’
‘Or maybe you work for someone else.’
Enraged, she unleashed a volley of French. Had I paid attention at school, I still doubted I could translate.
‘Who is it, Simone?’
‘When you are done,’ she said coldly, ‘I am going to pick up the phone, call reception and ask them to alert the police.’
I searched her face for deception. Couldn’t see it. She jutted out her chin, drew a deep breath in through her pretty nose. ‘Just who the hell do you think you are to question me?’
In an instant I understood why it had always been better to blindly follow orders with no deviation. There were some who became involved with their victims, either sexually or as a fake work contact, simply in order to kill them. I’d never favoured that approach. Aside from being underhand, it led to too many questions. If you were any good at the job, and I was the best, you got in, did it and got out. Truth was, I never intended to kill Simone, irrespective of what Hayes wanted. By trying to nail her, however, I’d wildly opened myself up to exposure.
I let her go. ‘There’s no need to call the police.’
She rubbed her wrists, eyeing me as if she no longer recognised the man she slept with. I felt like a guy who has just hit his girl. It wasn’t a good feeling. I wasn’t sure how were going to make it back through the debris to more solid ground. Luckily, Simone was forgiving. Her face suddenly softened. ‘Joe, what is this all about?’
How I wished I could tell her.