THREE

Jay’s shouts reverberated against the brickwork. ‘Stop! STOP!’But it was too late.

The woman glanced at Jay. She withdrew the stiletto.

The alley was a dead end. The woman would have to get past Jay in order to flee.

Jay braced herself as the woman rushed towards her. She didn’t want her to get away. Her heart was thudding, her pulse rocketing. Every sense was heightened. She could see the woman’s dark roots, showing she dyed her hair. The gold chain around her neck. The tiny mole at the corner of her mouth. Her man’s watch. Its sturdy brown leather strap.

The woman hissed as she ran.

Jay kept her eyes on the stiletto.

At the last second the woman dived left. Jay lunged after her. The woman was fast – much faster than Jay – and lashed out, kicking Jay’s right leg from beneath her. She followed this with a karate blow to her throat, which Jay managed to deflect. Off-balance, dropping to her knees, Jay felt her hair being grabbed, and the next instant her head exploded with pain.

The woman had rammed her skull against the alley wall.

Dazed, Jay slumped forward. She heard the soft rush of feet as the woman ran away. She heaved herself upright and staggered to the road. Saw the woman climbing into a taxi. It was too far to read the number plate. As the taxi drove away, an arm appeared out of the rear window. The woman was waving goodbye.

Bitch.

Jay stumbled for Sol.

He wasn’t breathing. She couldn’t feel his heartbeat, or a pulse.

Oh, sweet Jesus.

Fingers fumbling, she pulled out her mobile phone. Dialled 112. Asked for an ambulance. Asked for the police. Gave the operator directions.

Then she tilted Sol’s head back, pinched his nose, and started resuscitation. She gave five full breaths fast before checking his pulse.

Nothing.

Quickly, she found the lower end of his breastbone. Found the midline. Placed the heel of her left hand on his chest. Interlocked the fingers of both her hands and began compressions, counting out loud.

The last time I did this, she thought, I was on a sodding training exercise in Wales.

No rain here, though. Just an unmoving body sprawled on cold cobblestones. Blake’s friend. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, let him die.

Fifteen compressions. Two breaths. Fifteen compressions. Two breaths.

After a minute, she checked his pulse.

Nothing.

Come on, Sol! Don’t give up!

Fifteen compressions. Two breaths.

In the distance, she heard the wail of a siren. Please God, let it be the ambulance.

Fifteen compressions. Two breaths.

She didn’t stop until a paramedic caught her hands and drew them aside. While he bent over Sol, checking his breathing, another checked his pulse. She scrambled sideways, rose unsteadily to her feet. She said, ‘Une femme l’a attaqué. A woman attacked him. Elle a utilisé –’ Jay fumbled with her French for the word ‘stiletto’ – ‘un stylet.’ She then told them the woman had shoved the stiletto into the base of his skull.

One of the paramedics glanced at her, shocked, but the other tilted Sol’s head slightly, took a look. He swore. ‘Merde.’ His fingers came away with a tiny smear of blood.

She began to tremble as she watched them work. Her fingers felt numb. The van’s blue lights continued to twirl above its insignia – SAMU, Service d’Aide Medicale Urgent – making people stare as they walked past. Not long afterwards, the police arrived in a rush. They paused at the alley entrance when they saw Sol, the paramedics’ concentration.

Finally, the paramedics leaned back. Shook their heads. ‘Desolé, Madame,’ they said. So sorry.

Jay felt as though she was having an out-of-body experience. She’d travelled to Paris to meet a friend of Blake’s, a good friend, and he was dead. Murdered on her watch.

She covered her eyes with her hands.

The police moved in. Began taping the area. Walkie-talkies spat and crackled. The atmosphere became brisk.

‘Madame?’ It was one of the cops. He moved her out of the alley. Began asking questions. He spoke in French, but when she stumbled with the language – she wasn’t entirely fluent – he switched to English. Jay answered him as accurately as she could, but her mind was woolly, her head throbbing from being smacked against the wall.

No, she didn’t know the woman who had attacked Sol. No, she didn’t know if Sol knew the woman. No, she’d never seen the woman before.

She was describing the woman’s dyed hair when two men muscled their way into the alley. They wore suits and reflective sunglasses and expected the cops to defer. Jay’s spirits sank. She knew the type. She’d met enough of them. Government agents. The paramedics let the agents search Sol’s body, recovering his wallet, his phone, and the note the boy had given him. There was lots of talk between the agents and the police and paramedics. A gendarme began photographing the body.

The two agents backed out of the alley. Came and stood in front of Jay. Showed her their badges: DCRI, Direction Centrale du Renseignement Intérieur, the French equivalent of MI5. The larger one was called Mafart; the smaller, with a pointy beard the colour of consommé, Prideaux.

‘Please, Madame.’ Mafart indicated a black Audi parked behind the ambulance. ‘If you wouldn’t mind coming with us.’

‘A friend is on his way,’ she told them. ‘Can we wait for him? He’s a friend of Sol’s. The dead man.’ She glanced at her watch, to see that barely twenty minutes had elapsed since Blake had texted her. It felt much longer. ‘He should be at the Café de la Poste shortly.’

‘His name?’

She could see no reason not to tell him. ‘Max Blake.’

Mafart walked to one of the cops, had a word. Came back. ‘The police will wait for him. They will bring him to us.’

Before she climbed into the rear of the DCRI vehicle, she scanned the street. Three cop cars, the agents’ Audi, and the ambulance. A crowd had formed on the opposite side of the street. She couldn’t see Blake anywhere.

Prideaux joined her on the rear seat. Mafart started the car, pulled out. Neither man spoke.

She leaned her head against the headrest to feel a bruise had already formed, continued to throb. The journey felt surreal. The silence inside the car, the way Mafart drove uncompromisingly fast, with his hand on the horn. They passed the Gare du L’est in a flash, barrelling north-east. Instead of turning off on the Boulevard Périphérique – the inner ring road – as she expected, Mafart pushed north on the same road, past the airport. As the city fell away, Jay felt the first inkling that something was wrong.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked. The last sign had read Senlis, which was well north of the city.

‘Our debriefing office is outside Paris,’ Prideaux said smoothly. ‘Sorry it’s taking so long. If you want something to read, there’s a magazine in the pocket in front of you . . .’

He leaned across as if to show her a magazine, and at the same time he brought up his right hand and plunged something into her right thigh.

‘Ow!’ She reared back. ‘What the hell . . .?’

Prideaux withdrew a hypodermic needle. ‘Goodnight, Ms McCaulay.’

Jay reached for the door handle, but her movement was futile. Her hands were already so heavy that she couldn’t lift them. Her legs too leaden to move.

Her last thought before the world turned black was that Tom would be furious when she was late for supper that night.

*       *       *

Jay tried to open her eyes.

They were taped shut.

Fear rushed through her.

Mafart and Prideaux. What was going on?

She told herself to forget about the agents. She had to concentrate on the here and the now. Her survival.

She reached up to remove the tape.

Our debriefing office is outside Paris.

Shut up, she told herself, battling to stop her fear from blossoming into full-blown panic.

Focus. Assess the situation.

Her hands were shackled together with what felt like plasticuffs. Her feet were free.

She felt groggy. She didn’t know what Prideaux had injected her with, but it had worked incredibly quickly. She wondered how long she’d been unconscious.

She peeled back the tape from across her eyes. It was pitch dark. She could see nothing. As she moved, she heard a chinking sound. Her cuffs were attached to a chain. She pulled on the chain, but it held fast. On her hands and knees, she tracked it to find she was locked to what felt like a brick wall. The distinctive shape of a large padlock made her spirits plummet even further.

Her body was sluggish, but she forced herself to her feet. As she breathed, she became aware of a thick stench. Oddly, it reminded her of Norfolk, when the wind blew from the south and across the pig farms. Was it pigs she could smell? Or something else?

Wherever she was, it was icy cold and damp. She shivered.

Think! How are you going to get out of here?

Again, she checked the ring on the wall. No way could she pull free.

Her hands were tied, but her feet were unbound . . . A plan sprang to mind.

Pretend you never regained consciousness. Play dead. And when they get close enough, kick them, knock them to the ground. Snatch the key to the padlock, free yourself . . .

Although part of her knew this scenario was unlikely, it was the only plan she could come up with, so she manoeuvred herself back to the ground. Scrabbled around until she felt the tape. Carefully, she placed it back over her eyes.

What position had she woken in? She tried to remember. On her right side. Knees drawn up.

She practised a couple of times until she was sure she could get into position quickly. Then she rose and quietly began pacing. She needed to keep her body moving. Keep it warm and ready for action. Keep a clear head. She tried to keep track of time, but it was impossible in the dark. Eventually, perhaps two hours later, she thought she heard something. Footsteps echoed in the darkness. Had she imagined them?

She froze.

They were faint at first, but gradually became louder.

Fear flooded her.

It sounded like two people. Prideaux and Mafart? Quick. She had to get into position.

Jay tumbled to the ground. Wriggled on to her right side. Drew up her knees. Made sure the tape was firmly over her eyes. She didn’t want to risk her captors being alerted she might be awake.

She concentrated on steadying her breathing.

Be still. Don’t move.

She heard a bolt being snapped back. The sound of the door opening.

Her heart thumped as someone stepped inside.

Quiet, quiet. Steady breaths.

She heard a click. The blackness behind her tape turned to brown. She guessed a light had been switched on.

Footsteps crossed the room. Quick and light. She smelled something cloying and sweet, like rotting honeysuckle. A brush of fabric told Jay someone was crouching beside her. She had to force herself not to hold her breath in fright, but continue to breathe gently, in and out. In and out.

‘Shit. She’s still out of it.’ A woman’s voice, exotic and husky. She sounded irritated.

‘Leave her,’ a man said. ‘I’ll check on her later.’

Jay nearly jumped when she felt a pair of cool fingers settle against her neck, checking her pulse.

‘Strong and steady,’ the woman purred. ‘Just how I like it. Shall I leave her some reading material? Get her in the mood?’

‘You can leave her with a picture of the French president naked, for all I care. Come on, Nahid. It’s bloody cold down here.’

‘Promise you won’t play with her until I get back tomorrow?’

‘I promise.’ He sounded weary, as though he’d been asked this a hundred times before.

Jay hastily reviewed her options. Quickly decided it would be better to wait until the man returned alone than take them both on now.

‘She intrigues me,’ the woman said. She was still crouched over Jay. ‘Her passport shows she’s travelled to Kosovo and Macedonia. Do you think she’s a spook?’

‘She might be.’

‘Was she a friend of Neill’s, do you think? Was that why she was there? Or is she something else? Something more dangerous?’

‘We’ll find out soon enough,’ the man responded.

‘She tried to stop me leaving the alley.’

‘So you said.’

‘It’s not often I come across a woman like her. I want to get to know her. See what makes her tick. What her darkest fears are. I wonder which she’ll fear more: losing her sight or her speech? I want to know, Tivon.’ Her voice rose impatiently.

‘Soon,’ said Tivon.

‘Soon,’ Nahid murmured.

There came the sound of paper being rifled. Jay couldn’t think what the woman was doing.

‘There,’ Nahid said. She sounded satisfied. ‘I’ve put my favourites in the middle.’

‘Very nice,’ the man said neutrally.

Jay had to force herself not to recoil when the woman brushed her lips against Jay’s cheek.

‘Sweet dreams.’ Her voice was a husky whisper. ‘My sleeping beauty.’

Nahid’s feather-light footsteps tapped away.

The instant Jay heard the door close, the bolts slide into place, she tore off the tape. It took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the light from a single bare bulb, dangling from the ceiling. She was in a windowless room. Bare cobbles covered the floor. Bare brick walls with half a dozen metal rings. Mould grew from the mortar between the bricks. Was that what she could smell?

Then she took in the photographs laid before her. Snapshots of people. All naked. Men and women, a couple of children. They were bruised and battered, their faces shattered and bloody. Skin had been flayed, and limbs broken. There was the occasional flash of creamy white where a bone poked through torn flesh. There was a lot of blood.

Jay closed her eyes.

Nausea rushed through her.

Dear God. Please don’t let these be real.

Shall I leave her with some reading material? Get her in the mood?

Calming herself, she opened her eyes. She made an effort to lock her emotions in a box inside her and look at the photographs with a dispassionate eye. Swallowing, she ran her eyes over them. There were forty-three pictures. None of them appeared to be of the same person.

She couldn’t look at the ones of the children.

In the centre were two larger photographs, which had been enlarged. One was of a man who had had his eyes sewn shut. The other was of a woman who had had her lips sewn together.

I wonder which she’ll fear more: losing her sight or her speech?

Fear roared through her veins. She couldn’t help the whimper that escaped.

Shit.

She was in trouble.

Big trouble.

She had to get out of there.