Torrential rain bounced off the surface of the tarmac, the wet road glistening beneath the glow of a solitary streetlight. A steady downpour created a shimmering curtain against the drab veil of a miserable night. Local pubs and clubs had offloaded their drunken revellers long ago. The neighbourhood was deserted; nearby terraced houses were in darkness. The distant bark of a stray dog fractured the eerie silence. As a tomcat skulked in the charcoal shadows, the telltale sound arrested the lone night prowler in its tracks. With one silky movement, it leaped to a safer level on a crumbling brick wall.
Seconds later, a dark saloon emerged from a bend in the road, creating waves of murky water. The rear door flew open to eject an unrecognisable bundle. The momentum carried the object across the pavement where it slammed against the wall. Sensing menace, the cat arched its back, meowed, and vanished into the night. The streets were still again, apart from the gurgling drains as they consumed the excess deluge.
In the weed-grown foundations of the wall, the body of a young man lay motionless amidst his shattered dreams. This was Moss Side, Manchester, where random atrocities were not uncommon. Drugs and gang warfare were generally the root causes. Events in Southern France had sealed this young man's fate.
8888
Her toned skin glistened with beads of sweat. Disengaging herself from the turbo bike, she grabbed a towel. Her whole body trembled with the effort from the exercise. She glanced across at the mirrored wall. Tall, fit and beautiful, she was in peak condition. Her dark hair, normally long and flowing, cascaded in tight bunches onto her shoulders. In this environment, safety was paramount. Her grey green eyes sparkled, emphasising her pumped up vitality. She blinked to rid them of moisture whilst her tongue licked the salty taste from her sensuous lips.
Satisfied with her morning workout at the fitness centre, she was ready to refresh herself with a cold shower. Before heading for the changing rooms, she glimpsed a familiar face in the lounge area. Gently dabbing the perspiration from her arms and shoulders, she strolled across to greet him.
Petra Rebovka leaned over a barrier as she spoke to the face. “I thought that you had forsaken me or were intent on hiding away.”
The rugged features creased into a grin. “I believe that you completed the training successfully. Achieved a top grade, I hear. You certainly look in great shape.” His expression became serious. “Get changed. We need to talk.”
Petra disappeared. Rob Smith returned to his cappuccino and reflected on the honed perfection of her athletic body. He recollected her initial recruitment. Some butterfly, he thought. She is now more like a killer bee. Her suspect but authorised rescue from a deserved prison sentence had ruffled the establishment at the time. However, her expendable potency balanced the books in his estimation. If she were to fail and fall in the line of duty, she would have paid the price for her premature release from a justified penance.
Petra emerged ten minutes later, hair flowing again. She wore a black tracksuit, courtesy of Nike merchandising. She carried a matching gym sack that hung casually from her left shoulder.
She joined him at his table and nodded towards his coffee. “You can treat me to a fresh orange. All that caffeine's not good for you.”
“I've taken bigger risks.”
Having ordered the juice, they engaged in small talk for several minutes. They had met some years previously in Phuket at the time of the 2004 tsunami. The following year, their paths had crossed again when Petra was facing a murder charge. Rob had been instrumental in her release. Subsequently, he had exerted considerable influence to recruit her into the Secret Intelligence Service.
After completing her intensive training programme, her senior manager had assigned her to a counter-terrorism team. She was now equipped for her initial assignment as an operational officer. Rob was her mentor.
In the course of their conversation, Petra leaned back in the chair, flicking moist hair from her face. “So, cut to the chase. Why are you here?”
“How's your command of the French language?”
“French…you must be joking. You know that I'm almost fluent in Czech and have mastered some Polish…but French. Give me a break.”
Rob reached down to pick up a bulky package from under the table. He passed it to her. “A course in basic French on C.D.s. You have two weeks to get your head round them.”
With reluctance, Petra reached out to take his offering. In no rush to open it, she stared first at the package, then at Rob. “I thought the service provided language training courses.”
“This is it,” he replied. “It's a crash course.”
She shook her head in disbelief. “Two weeks? What then?”
“Your first solo assignment.”
“In France, I presume?”
Rob tutted. “No…China! Where d'you think, Petra?”
“I can't believe that you expect me to learn a new language in such a brief period.”
“Get to grips with the C.D.s first. In a couple of days, you'll receive a visit from a young woman who works for the bureau. She is French but speaks perfect English. She will help with the pronunciation. I've booked her for five sessions spread over the two weeks. I've asked her to concentrate on conversational French.”
“So, if she speaks the lingo, why not give her the assignment?”
“She's not a field operative. Don't worry; with your grasp of languages, you'll be fine. If I remember correctly, you played the role of a Polish girl for some months without any problems.”
“That was different.”
“You hoodwinked the police completely.”
Petra laughed. “That was down to their incompetence, not the result of my language skills or my acting ability.”
Rob smiled, reflecting on his own wrongful arrest during the same investigation. “I cannot disagree with you on that score.”
Petra looked about her before leaning forward. “What's the assignment, then?” she whispered.
“You'll be briefed later when you're proficient in the language. Don't let me down.” Rob glanced at his watch. “I must fly. See you in two weeks time. Au revoir, mademoiselle.”
He stood to leave, but leaned closer to her. “That reminds me; don't forget that you are now Louise Charrière. If you remember, we agreed that at your recruitment. At least with a name like that, people will think that you have some affiliation with France.”
Petra watched him go. She shuddered slightly. She had trained for this moment. What was in store for her? She considered herself physically capable, but mentally prepared?
All aspects of instruction had been intensive. With regard to the practical elements of the course, she had total confidence in her improved abilities: she could handle weapons expertly and her controlled aggression in unarmed combat had been admirable. She had perfected her knowledge and use of equipment and covert technology came quite natural to her. Though she had passed every psychological test, none of her skills and mental strength had been tested in the operational field. This was her major concern. How would she react in an unpredictable or dangerous situation?
Before joining the security services, she had committed some macabre crimes. She had killed mercilessly without emotion or regret, but she had always been in control. Maybe that was the answer, she thought. I must dominate every situation. I must believe in myself. It's the only way to survive.
She left the fitness centre mildly excited, but somewhat nauseous. She convinced herself that it was just nerves, the fear of the unknown.
8888
“I don't care. You're paid to do a bloody job…just do it.” Michel Dumas was angry, very angry.
He walked the length of the pool, his mobile clamped tightly to his ear. He always walked when using the phone. It seemed to be the norm with mobile phone users. He often wondered how he had coped before the devices had arrived on the scene. Roche was giving him a migraine. That made him angry. His anger caused the migraine. This was not a good sign.
Roche was unable to cope. “There are too many…all at the same time. I'm running out of places to accommodate them, I'm already out of drivers and it takes time to prepare all the soddin’ documents.”
Dumas was now striding towards the deep end. “I've told you before to use that bloody garage place next door. Just stick a load of cheap beds or some mattresses in there. These guys are probably used to sleeping on bloody straw in mud huts. If you've no bleedin’ drivers, book them on a damn flight.”
“It's not that simple. They need passports before I can make the reservations and now the ones for Germany have arrived. I need some help. I can't manage the whole process by myself.”
“Can't, can't, bleedin’ can't. That's all I ever hear from you. You'll just have to make the best of it. I'm too busy to worry about your bloody problems. You've got until next weekend to sort it.”
“Why, what's happening then?”
“You seem to have forgotten. It's my daughter's engagement party and certain special guests will be expecting a progress report. I need to know that you've cleared the bloody backlog. Sort it or you'll be wearing a suicide vest with the rest of them.”
Roche was one of the impoverished many; Dumas one of the wealthy few. Roche was a self-made pauper. He had earned vast sums but had frittered it away on drink, gambling and women…in that order of priority. Dumas was a self-made millionaire. Importing drugs across the Mediterranean had been his main source of income, most of which he had invested in prime city centre properties yielding high rental returns. Current criminal activities provided the added bonus of a lavish lifestyle, reflected by his hillside villa above Marseille.
From there, he could look across the azure sea towards Isle d'If, the focal point of his ancestor's famous novel, The Count of Monte Cristo. The adventurous lifestyle and battles against the authorities of Dantè, the hero of the story, were mirrored in Dumas's own constant disregard for the law during his struggle to achieve financial success. In his mind, poverty represented weakness and led to subservience; wealth brought power and control. Roche was a huge muscular man; Dumas was of medium build and stocky. In a contest, there could be only one winner. Roche knew that he had to ‘sort it’. He would always be the loser.
Dumas finished the call and kicked a chair into the deep end. His pool cleaner, Bobo, swiftly made himself scarce. He had heard ghastly tales about the fate of his predecessor. He was not prepared to take any chances with Dumas in such a violent temper. Something or someone had upset him. He wondered if it was worth reporting.
8888
“Inspector, what a pleasant surprise.” Caroline Finch held out her hand as Detective Chief Inspector Massey entered the Beacon, a pub restaurant located in the Peak District. Straddling the Pennine Chain, hills often referred to as ‘the backbone of England’, the area was popular with tourists for its natural beauty and cultural heritage.
“What are you doing here?” he asked. “I thought that you had retired from the business.”
“The licensee's on holiday. He's gone off abroad seeking the sun, whilst we have to contend with this unseasonably cold weather. I've been looking after the pub for a couple of weeks. It helps me to keep up to date with the licensed trade. I finish on Friday. What about you, Inspector? I heard that you had decamped to the capital. Were the streets of London not paved with gold, after all?”
Massey smiled. “It was certainly not what it's cracked up to be. Let's face it; the grass is not always greener.”
“So, is this a fleeting visit or are you back for good?”
“I've transferred to my original North West stomping ground, not to Cheshire this time but to Greater Manchester. In fact, I'll be based at Ashton. It was difficult to stay in London.” He hesitated. “There are too many bad memories.”
She was unaware of his inner distress. “You just couldn't stay away, could you? Let me fix you a drink and you can explain your change of heart. Trade's dead at this time of year, so I've had an easy time of it. We can sit by the fire and you can entertain me with tales of life in the big city. What can I get you?”
“A whisky would not go amiss.”
Caroline poured their drinks before settling onto a leather sofa by a roaring log fire. Massey recounted his experiences with the Metropolitan Police that had culminated with the tragic death of his brother-in-law, Detective Chris Turner.
“I only met him briefly,” she said. “He seemed to be a sensible young man with a bright future. I had the impression that he perceived you as his role model. Such a tragedy…you must have been devastated.”
“Losing Chris was a major turning point in my life. The fire went out inside. It was time to start again, to go back to my roots, to focus on getting the job done regardless of my self-pity. There was an opportunity here. I applied and here I am.”
“At least, you have family and friends to call on in this neck of the woods.”
“Not really. I'm divorced now and most of my friends have moved on, but this area of the country will always be home for me. I'll miss Chris. I had confidence in him making it to the top.”
Massey gazed at the fire as it drew sparks and smoke upwards into the sooty blackness of the stone chimneybreast. His mind was suddenly elsewhere. He shook his head, sighed deeply and turned to face Caroline before continuing.
“Chris had one major flaw. He would make decisions without consulting anyone. He perceived his actions as taking the initiative. When we were in Cheshire, he was lucky. It worked well for him. In London, it cost him his life. If only the stupid devil had confided in me first.”
There was a short silence. Caroline felt awkward, unwilling to pry. She sensed that his anguish was extremely personal. Maybe he was not yet ready to talk about it in detail.
Massey took a sip of his whisky. “I'm really here to beg a favour.”
“You know that you only have to ask.”
“I've purchased a property down the road between Mottram and Stalybridge but it will be a couple of days before I can move in. The removal firm has promised to deliver on Friday. In the meantime, I need some temporary accommodation as I start my new job tomorrow in Ashton. Knowing this area so well, I thought immediately of the Beacon and its charming rooms.”
Caroline touched his arm affectionately. “At this time of the year, especially with the icy conditions and the lingering snow, there are always vacancies. It will be a pleasure to have your company for a few days.”
“I should be away by the weekend provided that my furniture arrives on time.”
“If you need any help with the move, just say the word, Inspector. As I said, I finish here on Friday, so after that I'll have plenty of spare time.”
“On one condition…you stop calling me ‘Inspector’. My name is Raymond. Besides, I'm now a Chief Inspector.”
“Promotion as well…my, how your life has changed. Another whisky, Chief Inspector?” She emphasised his title, gently teasing him.
As she stood, someone thrust open the main door to the bar. A white-faced man in soiled overalls burst into the room. He appeared to be extremely agitated.
“Can you help? There's been an accident. A car's skidded off the road down an embankment.”
Massey leapt from his seat and followed him into the chilly evening air. There were patches of frost on the road. They glistened like fuzzy blobs, illuminated by the reflection of the red tail-lights of the man's vehicle. In that split second, they reminded Massey of pink candyfloss from his childhood days in Blackpool.
The man pointed towards a bend in the road, some hundred metres distant. “I was approaching the bend when this bloody car came towards me out of control. It must have skidded on a patch of ice. It missed me by soddin’ inches, crashed through the fence and disappeared into those trees.” He pointed farther down the road.
On reaching the broken fencing, Massey could see that the vehicle had toppled down the embankment, rolled onto its roof and lodged at an angle against some pine trees. Two wheels were still spinning slowly. He scrambled down through the scattered carpet of autumn leaves and wafer-thin patches of frozen snow. The driver of the other vehicle followed him. The detective mentally registered that the car carried French plates ending in the number sixty-two. That's from Calais, he thought, reflecting on a previous trip to France.
There were two occupants. On checking the driver, he found him to be dead. The impact had crushed him. The passenger appeared to be a young man. Massey kicked in the remains of the shattered windscreen to reach him. He was unconscious but moaned as the detective reached across to detach his safety belt. He was suspended from the top of the overturned car, still strapped in his seat. The car must have been quite old; no air bags had deployed. The young man's arms hung limply downwards. He was in a bad way.
It required the efforts of both men to extricate him through the smashed window. Massey was concerned about the heat from the engine; there was a strong smell of fuel. As they carried him to safety up the slope, a blinding flash and loud explosion propelled them to the ground. The vehicle burst into flames. They scrambled towards the road to avoid the searing heat that blasted from the resultant inferno.
Caroline had called the emergency services but the paramedics were too late to save the young man. Within minutes of his rescue, he had died from multiple internal injuries and trauma. Despite their speedy arrival from Glossop, the fire services could only extinguish what was left of the burned-out car.
The bedraggled detective introduced himself to the local Derbyshire Constabulary who had responded to the emergency call. Some induction to my new job, he thought.
8888
On the fifth floor of an office block overlooking the River Thames, a couple sat on opposite sides of a desk, one drinking coffee, the other iced water. The attractive young woman sipped her water. She had completed her language studies. According to her tutor, Petra's conversational French was ‘passable’.
She listened intently as Rob Smith, her mentor, outlined her first assignment. “As you may be well aware, this country has its problems with illegal immigrants from outside the E.U. Since the French closed their detention centre at Sangatte, visible numbers have fortunately decreased. However, some refugees desperate to escape aggressive and despotic regimes are still willing to take risks to gain entry to the U.K., even at the cost of their lives. Others, who have the means, pay vast sums to organised crime in an attempt to legitimise their entry into the country. It has become a cat and mouse game between the immigrants and border control.”
“What has that to do with us?”
Rob grimaced. “Amongst these arrivals there could be terrorists or potential terrorists. Despite stop-lists and intelligence reports, there will always be loopholes. We have to be one step ahead and investigate every deviance from the norm.”
He crossed the room to the window and looked out across the capital's skyline. “Out there, lies a constant threat to our way of life. Our role is to prevent that threat from becoming a reality. As you know, we are involved in a global conflict where constant diligence is paramount to suppress our adversaries.”
He turned towards Petra. “We're about to send you on a mission that may appear trivial. However, if it is what we think it is, the situation could become extremely dangerous. We'll cross that bridge if and when necessary. Hopefully, it should be straightforward, so it is a perfect opportunity to initiate you. Also, you won't be entirely on your own.”
Rob returned to the table and faced his protégé. “The U.K. Border Agency has brought to our attention the fact that there has been a recent influx of young French nationals, passing themselves off as students or simply as visitors.”
“Surely, that could be quite normal. Students often cross the channel both ways, especially youngsters. As a teenager I went on a school trip to the Loire valley.”
Rob agreed but went on to explain in more detail. “These visitors are not in groups or organised parties. They have been filtering into the country over several weeks either in pairs or as individuals. In some cases, a male adult accompanied them. Some have crossed via the ports at Dunquerke and Calais arriving in Dover. Others have even entered the country by air to Stansted and East Midlands airports. The flights originated from Limoges in the Limousin region. Some of the vehicles that crossed the channel carried a registration ending in the number eighty-seven, denoting that same area of France.”
“Maybe it's just the result of some educational initiative in that region,” Petra suggested, wondering where the conversation was about to lead.
“Why were none of them white? All have appeared to be either African or Asian, but have held French passports. The documentation was almost certainly false. With no previous, they would not have shown up on any stop-lists. The car registrations have proved subsequently to be either invalid or of vehicles reported stolen. None of the young men who have entered the U.K. under this guise have appeared on exit lists. In other words, they have failed to pass through customs on a return journey, unless they are using different false passports.”
Petra was unsure of her involvement in the situation. “If it's not a stupid question, why are we being tasked to check out illegal immigrants? I would have thought it to be the responsibility of border control or the immigration department.”
“But what if that wasn't the case? Perhaps something more sinister is taking place. Interpol in Lyon and G.C.H.Q. have reported increased traffic in communications amongst suspected terrorist activists, especially in P2, the Western Sector. If our assumptions are correct, some well-organised outfit must be running the operation to send over these young men with such a carefully planned cover. That requires substantial funding to which these types of young men from that region would not have access. The questions are why from that area of France, who is responsible and what is their purpose? If they had arrived from Pakistan or other areas of the Middle East, it would be more logical, but from France?”
“You're thinking Al Qaeda. They could be providing funding for terrorists or potential suicide bombers recruited from that area?”
“It's a possibility. However, they are more likely to recruit from North African Moslem communities, especially ex-French colonies than from the mainland of France. As you commented earlier, there could be an innocent explanation. On the other hand, it still flags up as being very strange, especially as two of them have now turned up dead in the Greater Manchester area. They both carried I.D. cards from the same football club in Limoges.”
“Really?” Petra suddenly exhibited some interest. She now understood the relevance of this information. “After my intensive French lessons, I take it that I am being sent to this place in France. What's the name again?”
“Limoges. It's the major city in the region of Limousin. We have a contact there, Jean-Marie Fauchet, a retired gendarme. He will be on hand to assist you. His career has taken him to Algeria, La Réunion and Guadeloupe in addition to various areas in France itself. His knowledge of French nationals in both the country's ex-colonies and their current overseas departments could be vital.”
“So, why not use him? Why send me with my limited knowledge of France and its language?”
“He's just a contact, not an operational officer. There's a suburb of Limoges in the north of the city called La Bastide. It's an area with a predominance of North African immigrants, overtly French nationals. One could class a small part of it as a rather downmarket ghetto. Consequently, criminal activity is quite commonplace. Our gendarme associate is well acquainted with the area and often watches the local football team, which plays in one of the French minor leagues. Most of the players are coloured and usually they tend to recruit locally. Recently, according to his reports, new faces have started to appear on the scene as team members, but disappear just as quickly.”
“What do you mean by ‘disappear’?”
“They arrive at the football club and move on without playing a game. Fauchet believes that, if there is a Limoges connection to the recent immigrants here in the U.K., it's possible that La Bastide could be a sensible starting point. Additionally, we have targeted the club because the I.D. cards found on the two stiffs in Manchester were from that same football club. This all fits with the reports from Border Control and Interpol, but we don't know why. We can only make assumptions.”
Petra sipped some water. “I cannot understand why they have to stop off at a football club in Limoges.”
“It's possible that, having been smuggled across the Mediterranean, they arrive at Limoges to be briefed, processed and set up in some legitimate guise to enter the U.K. Perhaps they're here as sleepers until some kind of directive arrives to activate them. Again, we are guessing. Unfortunately, because of his background, Fauchet would find it extremely difficult to infiltrate the club. They tend to close ranks where outsiders are concerned, especially if the interloper happens to be an ex-gendarme. A young white female taking interest in the local team might be viewed differently.”
“But I would stick out like a sore thumb in such an environment.”
“Absolutely. You would become the centre of attention, a pleasant distraction. Who would consider you to be working undercover? The players would fall over backward to make your acquaintance. Finding a contact within the football club is vital. You would need to gain someone's trust. You never know what you might dig up.”
“It's all a bit iffy, isn't it?”
Rob shrugged his shoulders and opened up his arms. “Give it a few weeks. If nothing turns up, you come home. Nothing gained, nothing lost.”
Petra continued to prevaricate, considering her involvement in a negative light. “But they would realise that I wasn't French. They would want to know my reasons for being there.”
“We will set you up with a plausible cover. You'll be a researcher with the European Cultural Foundation on a secondment at Limoges University researching some cultural aspect of French life. You choose your specific subject area.”
Petra interrupted him. “Excuse me, but what on earth is this European thing?”
“It's an organisation that supports arts and culture across Europe. Don't worry; it's an obscure independent foundation that nobody over there will have heard about. You'll be able to waffle to your heart's content. To support your interest in their football team, your other passion will be soccer. We'll fix you up with some footie memorabilia that you can use to further substantiate your story.”
Petra smiled. “I did watch Manchester United when I was younger. I used to fancy Ryan Giggs and more recently David Beckham.”
Rob considered that she was finally on board. “Perfect. They should be able to relate to that. United is probably the best-known English team over there. Giggs and Beckham are football icons. That will be your common ground, but remember that your mission will be to elicit information from them relative to our investigation. Spend time with Fauchet; he will advise you. When we have sufficient info on which we can act, you can return to the U.K. The Counter-Terrorism Units on both sides of the channel will follow up anything of value that you may pass on.”
“So, it's only for a few days, then?”
“No more than a week, maybe two. I promise.”
“Will I be wired or carry a hidden camera or will I be expected just to memorise everything?”
“Technology is certainly an option, but in that kind of environment, you will need to discuss its use with Fauchet. You should heed his words; remember, he's the one with local knowledge. It's important to establish yourself in your assumed role. The embassy in Paris will deliver a case containing standard issue equipment to your apartment in Limoges. It is an emergency resource. Your mission is simply to infiltrate, gather intelligence and exit. You are not to put yourself at risk. Any suspicion of being compromised, you must step away. Any whiff of danger, you're out of there. Understood?”
Petra nodded, unsure why she was about to participate as a novice in an assignment that Rob had described initially as straightforward but now appeared to imply dangerous undertones. Maybe it was to test her expertise, her initiative. Once again, her whole being was filled with trepidation, yet tingled with excitement.
She imagined herself as a modern equivalent of a spy about to drop into occupied France. There was an obvious foe then but who was the enemy now? According to George Bush, the western democracies were involved in a ‘war on terror’. Jackboots and Nazi uniforms identified the enemy during the Second World War. In this conflict, the enemy was invisible, hiding behind perceived normality. Friends and enemies now dressed the same, leading similar lifestyles.
Shit, she thought, this is for real and in a foreign land. I've trained for this. It's up to me now. I have the ability, so the instructors told me. The only downside is that my skills have not yet been tested in the field. I suppose that I must simply accept the challenge. I've never failed before. Why have doubts now? Panic over!
She took a deep breath, puffed out her cheeks and tried to look relaxed, despite displaying clenched fists. “When do I go?”
Rob opened his briefcase and withdrew a folder. “You're booked on the Eurostar to Paris tomorrow morning. You'll find an info pack with travel documents, a passport in your new name and some basic details of your accommodation. From Gard du Nord in Paris, you will take a taxi to Gare d'Austerlitz where you are booked on a train direct to Gare Bénédictins at Limoges. Jean-Marie Fauchet will be there to meet you.”
Petra slid the folder towards her, still relatively daunted by what lay ahead. “Why can't I fly there direct?”
“An overland journey will give you the opportunity to ease yourself into an awareness of France and French life. Use the trip to enhance your powers of observation. I suggest that you spend the rest of the day packing and reading through that little lot.”
Rob stood up and held out his hand. “Bon courage, Louise Charrière.”
“Thanks,” she whispered. She was about to stumble into a world that she could not have imagined in her wildest dreams.
8888
Massey sat at a cluttered desk in his office, acquainting himself with the unfamiliar surroundings. He was making notes in preparation for meeting his new team. There was a light tap on the door before it swung open to reveal a friendly face.
Detective Sergeant Newton held out his hand. “Welcome to Tameside.”
Massey walked around the desk and hugged him. “It's so good to see an old pal. Still based at Mottram nick?”
“Closed it down, didn't they? It was part of the cost-cutting exercise to centralise everything. I'm afraid that I'm here at Ashton now.”
“They probably transferred you to keep you out of the Stag across the road. Don't tell me that you're part of my team.”
“Absolutely, and I'm here to offer my congratulations on your appointment. I believe that you've made D.C.I. at last. I also heard about Chris Turner. Having met the guy, I can feel your loss. It's distressing to lose one of our own at any time but the circumstances must have been traumatic.”
“It's something I have to learn to live with. Hopefully, coming back up north will help: a new job, new area, new team and renewing old acquaintances will occupy my thoughts.”
Newton nodded in acknowledgement. As a former colleague, he knew how deeply Massey would feel the hurt of Turner's premature death. No words of comfort could extinguish his grief. It was time for the detective to move on.
Newton pointed at a file that he was holding. “Well, now you're in charge, I suppose there's no time like the present to stimulate the old grey matter. Actually, I'm here about something that has already involved you.”
“I'm intrigued already. Sit yourself down.” Massey settled back into the chair behind his desk.
“I believe that you've already met the top brass during your short induction. The Chief Super called me in this morning and, aware of our previous, he asked me to brief you. Last night's accident near the Beacon has thrown up some interesting info. The Derbyshire traffic cops who attended the scene had difficulty in tracing the occupants’ I.D. et cetera. The fire had virtually incinerated everything. Their forensic team's busy sifting through the charred remains of a holdall that was pulled from the boot, but don't hold your breath on that. However, enquiries with the French have traced the number plates to a car theft in Northern France.”
Massey concurred. “That figures. The vehicle carried a Calais registration.”
Newton placed the file on the desk. He extracted a copy of a small laminated card carrying a photograph of the young man pulled from the wreckage. “The driver was burned beyond recognition but the young coloured lad, whom you managed to rescue, matched this I.D. card that was discovered in his pocket. There was no passport. It was probably in the holdall.”
Massey examined the photocopy. “This was issued by the Federation Francaise de Football. He seems to have been a footballer. What's this Ligue du Centre Ouest?”
“They've checked that out. He's not famous. It's a minor league in South West France. The club for which he played is situated in Limoges.” Newton passed another sheet to Massey. “This is a copy of the reverse side of the registration card. It's been signed by a doctor to confirm that he was fit to play, probably for insurance purposes. At least they should be able to trace his next of kin.”
Massey returned the papers to D.S. Newton. “Why are you showing these documents to me? Surely, this is Derbyshire Constabulary's responsibility. Why have they forwarded them here?”
“They arrived by fax for the attention of the Chief Superintendent. He asked me to make copies for you. He thought that you might be interested as you were involved.”
“Well, I'm sure Derbyshire can handle it quite well without my expertise.”
Newton smiled. “Ah yes, but this is where it starts to get interesting. In the early hours of yesterday morning, there was the discovery of a body on a street in Moss Side, Manchester. It was another young coloured lad. He had been shot at close range through the back of the head, indicating a possible execution. You may think it not unusual, given that it was Moss Side. However, tucked away in a pocket inside his boxers, there was an I.D. card belonging to him. It was exactly like this one, issued by the same league to the same club.” The detective sergeant leaned back in his chair. “How does that grab you, Chief Inspector Massey?”
8888
The bullet-nosed Eurostar train, resplendent in its gold and white livery, slowed as it left the northern suburbs of Paris in its wake. On its final approach to Gard du Nord, it passed endless tower blocks and high-rise office buildings, the sprawling mass of a grey inner city hinterland.
Petra pressed her head against the cold window glass that separated her from the graffiti-adorned walls sprouting like vandalised ruins from the dreary trackside. They flashed by in a blur of artistic desecration.
None of what she observed jogged her memory. Almost a decade had passed since her previous visit. As one member in a party of teenage schoolchildren, perhaps the novel experience of a trip to the Loire and its renowned chateaux had distracted her from other aspects of the trip. She remembered little, apart from it being a mini adventure as opposed to a cultural visit. That was her view as an impressionable teenager.
For many of her friends, it was their first excursion to a foreign land. Excited and vociferous, they were too immature and undisciplined to wonder at the magnificence of one of the most seductive cities on earth. She and other girls had spent the major part of the tour assessing French male talent, wondering if its reputation for producing ardent lovers was true.
She smiled at the remote prospect of embarking on a romantic liaison during her current visit. This was no girlie adventure but a serious foray into the unknown. It prompted a more studied approach, not just towards Paris and the current itinerary, but also to every aspect of her time in Limoges. This time, the focus was fact-finding as opposed to sightseeing with a well-thumbed guide.
The train eased itself gently alongside the platform, coming to rest beneath the broad canopy of the terminus. A mischievous thought struck her. Why should I not take advantage? The mission starts in Limoges, she argued. I still have time to indulge myself. Even Rob had suggested that she should sample French life en route.
Buoyed by her thoughts, she strode confidently towards the main lower concourse, pulling her wheeled baggage behind her. After passing under the triumphal arch of the station's exterior façade, she headed for one of the waiting taxis.
“Gare Austerlitz,” Petra said, hoping that the driver would understand. Having helped to stow her baggage, he swung the taxi away from the station approach, leaving behind the busy bars and restaurants facing the ornate stone architecture of the Gare du Nord. As the vehicle filtered into the steady crawl of slow-moving traffic towards Rue La Fayette, Petra leaned forward.
“Est-il possible passer le Tour Eiffel et l'Arc de Triomphe en route à la gare?” she asked slowly and deliberately, aware that a detour would cost more. She would not be footing the bill. She perceived the request merely as her special treat, a mini sightseeing tour of Paris before facing what lay ahead, an opportunity to ‘ease herself into French life’ as Rob had suggested.
“Sans doute si vous voulez, mademoiselle,” replied the taxi driver. Another English woman, happy to splash the cash on a sightseeing trip, he thought. Well, why should I not make some extra?
Not too sure about his mumbled reply, she said, “Il faut arriver à la gare en deux heures. C'est possible?” She checked her watch. Two hours should give me plenty of time to make the connection, she thought.
“Ah, oui. Pas loin après avoir visité les grandes spectacles de Paris.”
Petra slumped back in her seat, hoping that her first attempt at conversation in French would bring about a favourable outcome. The taxi weaved its way southwards towards the Place de la Concorde, crossing Boulevard Haussmann, part of the Baron's legacy from the restructuring of urban planning in Paris during the mid-nineteenth century.
Leaving Place de la Concorde, the taxi followed the endless stream of stop-start traffic along the Avenue des Champs-Elysées to the Arc de Triomphe in Place Charles de Gaulle. Here it dodged other vehicles as it darted around one of the busiest intersections in Europe. Finally, the vehicle extricated itself from the mêlée and turned onto Avenue Marceau.
Neither driver nor passenger spoke to each other. One concentrated on his driving expertise that included lots of swearing and gesticulations at other road users, the other on admiring the sights, despite some trepidation from the traffic chaos that engulfed her. The driver broke the silence inside the cab as it approached Pont de l'Alma. Pointing towards a sculpture above the underpass, he slowed and leaned backward towards his passenger.
“Celui-là est visité par les admirateurs de votre Princesse Diana. Elle était tuée près d'ici au-dessous dans le tunnel. Pourtant, le monument réplique la flamme de la statue de la liberté en U.S.A.”
Petra nodded, unsure of his explanation about the connection between Princess Di's death in the tunnel and the Statue of Liberty. She glanced at the memorial, but showed more interest in the Eiffel Tower that rose above the Parc du Champs de Mars farther along by the banks of the river Seine. After crossing Le Pont de l'Alma, the scenery became less attractive to any ubiquitous tourist as the taxi criss-crossed the complex pattern of roads that dominate most large cities.
Towering apartment blocks embraced magnificent tree-lined boulevards. Some lurked behind shuttered windows; others flaunted floral balconies. Finally, they passed through Montparnasse to reach the more open spaces beyond the inner ring-road system of the city. In good time to join her connection to Limoges, they arrived at Gare d'Austerlitz, named after Napoleon Bonaparte's victory against the Russo-Austrian armies in 1805.
It was late afternoon when Petra stepped onto the concourse at Gare des Bénédictins in Limoges. Most other passengers rushed past her, aware of their next destinations. She followed the exit signs leading to the glass fronted entrance of the impressive edifice. The listed building, a masterpiece of art deco artisanship with its copper cupola and limestone campanile, is a unique example of architectural brilliance in railway station design.
In the midst of this hurly burly of commuter traffic, she spotted a grey-haired man wearing a dark overcoat. He displayed a rectangular card bearing the name ‘Louise Charrière’.
“Bienvenue en Limousin, mademoiselle,” said Jean-Marie Fauchet, as she walked towards him, her baggage click clacking across the tiled surface behind her. He appeared sprightly for his age, which Petra estimated to be late fifties. Olive eyes sparkled in a tanned face that sported a thin dark moustache, greying at the corners.
He smiled, greeting her with a formal handshake. “Suivez-moi. Je vous conduis à votre appartement.” He led the way towards a black Citroen Xantia and politely opened the passenger door as Petra approached the driver's door.
That's another damn thing that I have to get my head round, she thought. They drive on the other side here. Amused by her faux pas, he placed the luggage in the boot and they set off down the ramp towards the town centre and her temporary accommodation.
“I rent un petit logement in your name,” he announced in a mixture of English and French with a captivating accent. “It is not far from La Place de la République. It is almost centre ville. You will be moins visible there, ‘ow you say…less seen?”
Petra nodded. “Less conspicuous, I think.”
“Oah, oui. During your stay you ‘ave a Renault Clio for your use. She is found in a car park privé under the building. I also rent in your name a dedicated space for parking.”
Leaving the station complex behind, he skirted a mini roundabout where he followed the main thoroughfare leading to the town centre. He continued his dialogue. “In the appartement you find information and maps of the area. You ‘ave another file. It contain the papers for the car. It include the carte gris, the registration document for the Clio and a permit de conduire, your driving licence. All are in your name. When you drive, you must ‘ave all these documents with you in the vehicle plus your identity card or your passport.”
Petra listened, but wished that she had the various papers in front of her to help with their identification.
Fauchet interrupted her thoughts. “A courier from the British Embassy deliver yesterday a ‘eavy parcel. I sign for it. You find it under your bed. There is also a file of the university and the courses that one believe you attend. I advise that you pass the evening to examine these papers. Your French lessons…they are good?”
“Oh, okay, I think,” Petra replied, wishing that she could speak French half as well as he attempted to speak English. “It's a pity not to have spent more time with my tutor.”
“You find it easier to learn the language if you spend time with the French people and you use all the opportunities to speak with them. You must watch the television, read the newspapers. It is necessary to learn new phrases. You try them in the shops, the café bars and even in the street, for example. You find that French people greet you and engage with you. We are not reserved like you English. We enjoy good discourse, especially with an apéritif or café in the bars.”
Petra smiled at his perception of English people compared to the more sociable French.
He had more to say. “I come to you at nine in the morning. It is necessary to make your watch one hour plus. I take you to La Bastide. We stop near there for a coffee and be acquainted better. Tomorrow we speak in French as much as possible. I look forward to work with you.”
The car had skirted around Galeries Lafayette, the French equivalent of John Lewis. It passed the rear of Promoprix and Fnac before crossing towards La Préfecture. Finally, they turned into a narrower one-way street, coming to a halt outside a grey three-storey building of drab appearance. An estate agency occupied the ground floor. To the right of the display window, a weathered oak door matched the sombre exterior of the building.
“Welcome to your new logement,” said Jean-Marie, passing her a set of two keys. “The door, she ‘as two locks.” As he lifted her baggage from the boot, he pointed towards an adjacent archway. An automatic red and white barrier guarded the entrance. “The underground parking area where you find the Clio,” he explained. “One must operate the barrier with a card. You find this with the papers for the vehicle.” He smiled, reflecting on her confusion with the doors. “You must remember that in France we drive on the right.”
They exchanged mobile contact numbers. Jean-Marie had one final word of advice as he returned to his car.
“Remember, you come to study at the university. You must not forget. Bon courage. A demain, mademoiselle.”
Unsure of which language to use, Petra found herself mixing them together. “Merci, until tomorrow…à demain.”
Jean-Marie waved goodbye, drove away and disappeared from view.
She stood with her luggage on the pavement by the oak door, clenching the keys. No longer oblivious to the passers-by going about their business, she suddenly became aware of the reality of the situation. She felt vulnerable, alone on a street in a strange town in a foreign country. Her ears filled with the incomprehensible chatter from people walking past. She placed her hands over her ears. Without the incessant babble in French, it could have been a street scene in London.
I need to speak the lingo, she thought. So much for Rob's assurance that I should not be too concerned. ‘English is a universal language’, he had said. Obviously not here in Limoges. First on the agenda, check out the flat, then phone sister Klara and afterwards find the nearest bar. Sod the paperwork until later.
She pushed the keys into the two locks and opened the door to her new world.
8888
Massey answered the phone. It was a receptionist in the general office. “There's a Superintendent Richardson on the line for you. He's with Greater Manchester Serious Crime Division.”
“You had better put him through.”
“D.C.I. Massey? Superintendent Richardson, Serious Crime. I've arranged for D.C.I. Harcourt from Bootle Street to liaise with you over two apparently related mortalities. One took place on our area here in the city, the other over the border in Derbyshire. I believe that you are aware of the murder of the young Frenchman in Hulme and have first hand knowledge of the victim accidentally killed in the motoring incident.”
He continued without waiting for any confirmation from Massey. “I've spoken with my counterpart in Derbyshire Constabulary and he is content for you and D.C.I. Harcourt to investigate any links between the two deaths. Their local traffic division will deal with the accident report. I don't see the point in having a three-way liaison across the divisions. It will only complicate matters.”
He paused slightly, anticipating that Massey would perhaps question his proposed involvement. Massey knew better than to protest against a premeditated decision, especially one delivered direct from a superior officer.
The authoritative voice continued. “I've cleared it with your Chief Superintendent. I hear that you have already had dealings with the authorities in France when you were with the Met, so that bodes well for any ensuing enquiries. D.C.I. Harcourt will contact you later today. We need to conclude the investigation as quickly as possible. These youths were French nationals. The authorities over there will be expecting a result. Good luck.”
“Thank you,” said Massey, feeling that he had just been shafted. He rose from his chair, left the room and crossed the open-plan office of C.I.D. to find D.S. Newton.
The sergeant was on the phone as Massey approached his desk. He finished the call and turned to face his boss. “I hear that you've been teamed up with D.C.I. Harcourt from Bootle Street.” He smiled.
Unsure of the reason, Massey sensed that the smile was really a smirk at his expense. “How did you know that? I've only just been informed.”
“D.C.I. Harcourt and I go back a long way…besides, the grapevine is in full working order.”
“So, what's he like to work with?”
Newton sighed, tapped the desk with his pencil and stared across the room. “Quite dominant, I would say. Always wants to be on top, you know, to be in charge. No time for below-par performances, likes to get down to the nitty-gritty as quickly as possible.”
“Sounds like my type. We should get on quite well.”
“Oh, you'll get on okay with ‘Hardcore’, without a shadow of a doubt.”
Massey showed some surprise. “Pardon…you call him ‘Hardcore’?”
Newton laughed. “D.C.I. Harcourt's a female. Like I said, she likes to get down to it asap.”
“You bastard! Richardson never said.”
“Oh, I gathered that. Sorry, just couldn't resist.”
Massey looked thoughtful for a second or two. “So, none of what you said was true?”
“You'll get on fine. She's good. Like you, she cannot stand grey areas, no time for airy-fairy judgements, likes to stick to facts. She can be a little bullish, though. She likes to have her own way.”
The perceived qualities of his intended new partner were beginning to intrigue Massey. “You've worked with her often?”
“For a short time, before I transferred to Ashton. Before you ask, yes we did have a bit of a fling together, nothing too serious. It was just sex.”
“Is that how she earned her nickname?”
Newton grinned. “That's for me to know and you to find out.”
Massey ignored his last remark. “She's supposed to be contacting me later today to set up a meeting. Care to tag along?”
“Fine. I don't mind playing gooseberry.”
Massey grunted and started to walk towards his office. “Keep yourself free later. I'll arrange the meeting for tonight. I know a nice little boozer, not too far away.”
8888
Having checked out the flat and called her sister to announce her safe arrival, Petra slid the package from under the bed. It contained a silver metal case with a combination lock set at zero. Inside, together with some documents, she found a greeting card wishing her good luck. There was a picture of a butterfly on the front cover. She smiled. Rob must have arranged it.
Beneath another lid, she discovered several items that she recognised from her training days packaged in separate containers. She located a concealed button within the lining to click open a false bottom to the case. It contained a weapon and its associated accessories. She removed the card and locked the case, mentally noting the combination that she had used. She slid it gently back under the bed. She sensed that she was now in control.
With resurgent confidence, she locked the apartment door before descending to the car parking area to find the Renault Clio. It was a 1.2 saloon in metallic grey, spotlessly clean. Probably a hire car, she thought. She walked up the sloping ramp to the main street and went in search of a bar that served food. It appeared that Limoges was not lacking in establishments of that ilk, as every other commercial premises in the vicinity seemed to offer some kind of sustenance.
After walking for several minutes, she found herself in a large open square, one side of which was dominated by the cast-iron structure of an expansive glass-fronted market hall. It reminded her of Covent Garden…a panacea to any feelings of loneliness. Opposite, there was a mixture of shops and terraced bars. Narrow alleyways of trendy boutiques descended towards a busy road that bisected the shoppers’ paradise from La Place de la République, passed earlier with Jean-Marie. Wherever she looked, it bustled with people, a kaleidoscope of racial backgrounds. Though minute in comparison, Limoges was like London, a cosmopolitan city.
Pity that I'm not here on holiday, she thought. I could have spent hours exploring those enticing clothes shops…maybe later in the week.
She continued her walk along another lane of shops that eventually led into a smaller compact square. A bar on the left caught her eye, advertising itself as a Salon de Thé and Brasserie. Strangely, its sign announced it as Le Café 1900. There were vacant tables on a terrace outside, but the evening air was cool. She opted to sit inside.
On entering the bar, she immediately experienced a sepia postcard vision of 1920’s style France. This was a world apart from the pubs and restaurants that she and Klara used to frequent. Realising that table service was the norm, she chose a vacant seat facing the high bar counter. The absence of bar stools suggested that its function was for serving waiters as opposed to propping up customers. She found herself by a large window overlooking the square.
Whilst waiting for service, she absorbed the dated décor of the bar's interior. Segmented areas divided the lofty ceiling. Each consisted of four-cornered domes that sprouted from the tops of aged, grey marble pillars laced with shiny veins of pink and dark brown. Enormous mirrors in ornate gilt frames exaggerated the sense of depth and space. On many of the walls, faded paintings of scenes depicting exuberant eras of French life added nostalgic animation to its contrived decadent ambience. It was as though she had travelled back in time.
She ordered a glass of Bordeaux Supérieur and withdrew a large brown envelope from her bag. She had discovered it under the car keys on a table in the apartment. It contained the vehicle's registration document, her French driving licence, a rent book for the apartment, a pass for the university and a credit/debit card for Credit Agricole bank. Each item was in the name of Louise Charrière. In a separate envelope, she found a detailed map of Limoges and a folded Michelin map of France. Rob had left nothing to chance.
She sipped her wine, asked for a menu and savoured the moment. Her identity change was documented and official. It was now time to change her persona to match the environment and the situation that her assignment demanded. It was time to blend in as a researcher of European culture, not as an undercover agent.
She glanced through the window, wrapped in thought as she observed the pedestrian traffic. There was something different about French women. Was it the way they dressed or was it simply their deportment? To blend in, she decided that she needed to be chic as opposed to trendy. On the other hand, she also wished to stand out from the crowd in preference to being ignored, but in a subtle way. Perhaps, if she adopted a French style of dress and behaviour, her inability to speak the language fluently and her accent would add a little je ne sais quoi. She convinced herself that a shopping expedition for a new wardrobe would solve her dilemma. She did not require much persuasion.
A waiter arrived to take her order. Skipping the starter and omitting the cheese course, she chose the Terrine de Saumon aux Epinards followed by a Mousse au Chocolat. A basket containing a mini mountain of sliced baguette, a carafe of vin blanc and iced water complemented the meal.
An hour passed before she walked back to the apartment, well nourished and satisfied with her first foray into the local scene. Later, as she snuggled under the duvet, she again wondered whether she would be able to cope with what lay ahead. Weighed down with her concerns but tired after a long day, she soon drifted into a deep sleep.
8888
Massey picked up the phone and dialled Newton's extension. “Can you clear your desk in the next five minutes? We have a date with your friend ‘Hardcore’.”
Newton laughed. “If that's the case, I'll be two minutes. Where the meeting?”
“I've arranged to rendezvous at the Horse and Jockey in Chorlton. It's on her way home. Apparently, she lives not far away in Didsbury and is already acquainted with the pub. It shouldn't be more than twenty minutes on the motorway. If we take both cars as far as Denton, leave yours just off the M60, I can drop you there on the way back to my temporary digs. See you in a couple of jiffies.”
Thirty minutes later the two detectives walked into the Horse and Jockey. D.C.I. Harcourt had already arrived. She sat at a table in a quiet corner of the lounge. Apart from a regular at the bar who was chatting to a member of staff, the public house, a local tavern with low oak-beamed ceilings, appeared devoid of other customers.
She rose from her chair as they crossed towards her. “D.S. Newton…how nice to see you again.” She turned to Massey. “You must be D.C.I. Massey. Pleased to meet you. Your reputation precedes you. I remember when you put away those two sisters for that dreadful murder at the pub in the Peak District.”
Massey shook hands. “Thank you. Unfortunately, I failed to achieve the result I wanted and realise the sentence that they deserved. The court played its part, but someone in high places pulled more than a few strings. The case was re-tried and they were released early.”
Harcourt empathised with his obvious frustration. “So I believe. One's faith in the justice system is constantly put to the test. The excuse of overcrowded prisons is wearing a little thin. Murderers are murderers and, if guilty, should be banged up for life.”
They joined her at the table where she addressed Newton. “If I recall, you were also involved in that case.”
Massey nodded. “Without D.S. Newton's tip-off, we may never have traced them.”
Harcourt studied Massey with a penetrating stare. “Such modesty…a rarity amongst male officers. I believe you both met during your initial training. Here you are, a chief inspector, yet you're still a sergeant.” She looked across at Newton, a glance that hardly concealed the look of contempt. “What went wrong, D.S. Newton?”
“I must have been scratching the wrong back,” Newton replied with the hint of a smirk.
Harcourt quickly changed the subject, ignoring his jibe. “Let me order you both a drink.” She rose from her chair. “What's your poison?”
Massey looked across at the bar. “A half of Boddingtons for me will be fine.”
She turned to Newton with a disparaging expression.
“Same as,” he said, smiling.
He turned to Massey. “She fancies you. Already, you're her hero. Play your cards right and you could be in there.”
Massey watched his opposite number as she ordered the drinks at the bar. She wore a black pencil skirt with a side slit, a cream silk blouse and black patent leather stilettos. She had left her jacket slung over the back of her chair.
“Nice legs,” Massey remarked, sizing up his prospective partner, “and pleasantly attractive.”
Newton grinned. “Nice all over and I'm speaking from experience.”
Harcourt returned with their drinks, placing them on the table. She leaned over her chair to extract a slim folder from her briefcase. The action appeared to be deliberately provocative. The two men lifted their beers but the glasses failed to reach their mouths. Both sets of eyes pierced Harcourt's shapely derrière.
Seemingly oblivious to their noticeable fascination, she placed the folder in front of Massey. “I'm afraid there's not a lot to go on. Inside are copies of both the young men's football I.D. cards…thanks for faxing yours through to us. We have also included a couple of photos of our Moss Side victim. There's a preliminary forensic report on the murder victim. It states mostly how the bullet entered his head and exited above the left eye, removing a fragment of the cranium section of his skull. At the scene, we found no traces of either the weapon or the bullet. Obviously, the execution was carried out elsewhere. That part of the investigation is ongoing.”
Massey studied the report. “Any progress on that line of enquiry?”
“Nothing so far. We've checked with Interpol with regard to their backgrounds. If they had genuine French passports, a local Mairie or Préfecture could have issued them. As we do not know from where the two victims originated, that could take time.”
“What about the footie I.D.s?” Newton asked.
Harcourt shook her head. “The French Football Federation I.D. cards are of little significance, apart from the fact that they relate to a club in Limoges. Following our enquiries, we have confirmation that the doctors’ names and signatures are fake, so it's even more probable that the registration forms are also bogus. Someone could have stolen them from one of the many local F.F.F. offices. Apparently, there's a locally based retired gendarme looking into those issues with some female agent assigned from our intelligence services.”
Newton sighed, indicating some frustration. “If there is a football club connection, surely it would have been more sensible to have involved a bloke.”
Harcourt glared at him. “On this occasion, I'll ignore what might be interpreted as a sexist remark, as I made a similar point.”
Newton merely smiled, revelling in the repartee. To Massey, it seemed evident that the two former colleagues had endured a love-hate relationship. He wondered how Newton had managed to bed her. She was not typical of his usual class of female conquest. Harcourt seemed too sophisticated and intelligent. Perhaps she had fancied a bit of rough for a change.
Harcourt continued unabashed by Newton's constant provocation. “Their logic was founded on the fact that an attractive young woman would have more chance of making a connection with the players than a strange male.” She opened her diary. “The agent's called Louise Charrière. With a name like that, it appears that she is possibly French.”
Massey intervened. “I suppose that makes some sense. I can see the logic in sending someone who can speak the language.”
Harcourt attempted to reinforce her rebuff of Newton's comment. “I agree. For once, they seem to have made the correct decision.”
She continued to brief them on the outcome of her enquiries. “According to the U.K. Border Agency, there have been several of these football-affiliated visitors over the past few weeks. There are several common factors. All are young, all are of Afro-Asian origin and all have produced French passports. One or two have slipped in across the Channel but some have flown in via various airports in the U.K.from Limoges.”
Massey was puzzled. “How did the authorities know about their football link before these I.D. cards turned up?”
“Quite simple really. Apparently, when they handed in their passports, these fake I.D. cards were inside, creating an opportunity to state that they were keen to see a premiership football match during their stay. Possibly, it's been a premeditated distraction.”
Massey continued to probe. “You said that they've passed through different airports here, but all departures were from Limoges?”
Harcourt nodded. “There are flights from there into Southampton, Stansted, Liverpool, East Midlands and, at certain times of the year, into Luton, Manchester, Newcastle and even Edinburgh. Why they are arriving at different locations is a mystery.”
There was a pause whilst they gathered their individual thoughts. Massey scrutinised the contents of the file. Harcourt leaned back in her chair considering what their reactions might be towards a subsequent plan involving her and Massey. Her superiors had authorised the arrangement prior to this meeting. She decided to save the announcement for the last moment.
Newton was the first to speak again. “What if it wasn't a distraction? What if they were genuinely interested in major football venues?”
Harcourt considered his point. “You think that they were being truthful?”
Newton leaned across the table to explain his reasoning. “From what you have said, it appears that these so-called football fanatics have spread themselves around the country intentionally. For example, why would you want to fly to Southampton or Edinburgh if you wished to see a premiership game? If you were that keen, you'd want to watch Arsenal, Chelsea, Liverpool and especially United and City here in Manchester…teams in the major cities. The popular destinations would surely be Stansted, Liverpool and possibly East Midlands.”
Harcourt interjected. “Those are the three airports where they have disembarked.”
Massey was intrigued. “What point are you making?”
Newton continued. “If these young guys are arriving at those specific destinations, maybe it's because there's a more obvious reason to visit certain major cities.”
“Meaning?” Massey asked.
Newton leaned over the table. “Think about profiling, a technique that's gathering momentum. I'm no expert but from the evidence so far, surely there are similarities to nine eleven and July seven. They may be in the country to carry out a well-planned joint mission on what may be perceived as easy targets.”
Harcourt lowered her voice. “An opportunity to create carnage across major cities…each one a potential suicide bomber with a given target. Fanatics of a different kind. That is certainly feasible.”
“When I say ‘easy targets’, I'm not talking just city centres, but locations where thousands congregate on a regular basis. The targets could be their apparent excuse for coming here…football stadiums.”
Massey shook his head. “They would never gain entrance. Random searches often take place, making access uncertain. Also, the most successful clubs only allocate tickets to season ticket holders.”
Newton disagreed. “Some still go on open sale. Searches and major security operations come into force only when the police think the match has potential for violence between rival supporters, like United versus Leeds or Liverpool, West Ham versus Millwall. Besides, prior to kick-off you can guarantee that several thousand are queueing to enter through the turnstiles. They could do some major damage without even entering the stadium.”
Harcourt pointed out an alternative. “There are also other ways of acquiring tickets. I have friends who purchase complete hospitality packages.”
“Yes, but they're expensive, aimed at corporate clients,” Massey said. “These are just youngsters.”
Newton leaned across the table. “Funded by Al Qaeda?”
Silence reigned again for a few moments. Massey and Newton finished their beers.
Harcourt stood. “I'll fetch some more drinks. Same again?”
“It's my shout,” Massey argued.
Harcourt countered him as she walked towards the bar. “It's my meeting.”
Newton grinned. “Told you that she was a control freak.”
Massey was focussing his mind on matters that were more important. “I have a question for you. Why would someone shoot one of them? So far, according to the forensic report, it has every semblance of an execution.”
“Maybe he chickened out, refused to go through with it. They couldn't take the chance of sending him back or letting him loose. Too much knowledge, so it was ‘goodnight Vienna’! Perhaps the guy who was accidentally killed in the car crash was his replacement.”
“He arrived the following day. They would have planned his trip well in advance of this incident. There would have been insufficient time to arrange a substitute and book the ferry.”
“Agreed. However, what if they had prior knowledge of his refusal? Once they had confirmation that his replacement was in the country, then it would have been expedient to take him out.” Newton sat back in his chair, a smug expression on his face. “I rest my case.”
Harcourt arrived back at the table with the drinks. The two detectives continued with their theoretical discussion.
Newton quaffed some beer before continuing. “That means another replacement for the original substitute could be a possibility, ensuring that Manchester would not miss out as a target. Taking it one step further, to speed up the process, the logical option would be to fly one in.”
Massey began to see some possibilities in their speculations. “Maybe on a flight from Limoges to Liverpool?”
“What have I missed?” Harcourt asked.
Massey related a summary of the suppositions that they had put forward whilst she was at the bar.
She listened intently until he had finished. “Well, that problem's easily solved. We step up security on every flight into the North West from Limoges and arrest any young man carrying a football I.D. card in his passport.”
“You're assuming that he disembarks at a targeted airport and that there are no other suicide bombers already in the U.K. who could be re-assigned,” Newton added, reaching for his glass again.
Massey intervened. “Are we not jumping ahead of ourselves here? There's not a shred of evidence yet to support our theory. There are too many grey areas.”
Harcourt partly agreed. “Maybe, but something is definitely afoot, otherwise the security services would not be showing a presence in France, nor would the Border Agency have alerted the Counter Terrorism Units across the U.K. Anyhow, we can still step up airport security just in case we are correct in our conclusions.”
“If our assumptions are right,” Massey said, “I would imagine that the security services have already implemented such actions. Every French passport presented on entry to the U.K. will be meticulously scrutinised.”
“So, where do we go from here?” Newton asked, wondering if he would have some part to play in their investigation.
Harcourt took the opportunity to introduce the plan agreed earlier with her superiors. “D.C.I. Massey and I are booked on a flight to Limoges on Sunday morning.” She saw the consternation on Massey's face. “Don't worry, it's been authorised. It's an early flight, so make sure that you don't have a late night on Saturday.”
Massey was almost lost for words. “What's the point of going over there?”
Harcourt shrugged. “I thought that would be obvious from our current discussion about a potential influx of suicide bombers.”
“Surely, that's the responsibility of the Counter Terrorism Unit and Interpol's Fusion Task Force,” Massey argued. “In that scenario, our role would be to find their likely destination and possible targets here on the mainland. We have a fairly accurate idea of their origin.”
Newton was just as surprised by Harcourt's announcement as his boss. He was interested to see how he would handle it. He decided to keep the discussion alive. “I would imagine that they are destined for safe houses in the north and south of the country where they will be briefed and equipped. They'll probably attack their individual targets at a given time. Simultaneous hits would cause immense disruption to our infrastructure. If footie grounds in the North West have been targeted, an existing cell will control them in somewhere like Bradford, Leeds or Blackburn, towns where they could blend in with the existing ethnic population.”
Massey was shell-shocked. His despondent feelings resulted from a combination of the real prospect of widespread carnage and Harcourt's sudden disclosure. He tried to put on a phlegmatic expression by focussing on Newton's remarks. “There are ethnic communities in every conurbation. They could have taken refuge in any other major town. Surely, we should be working with the intelligence services here. They must have picked up increased communications traffic from their covert ops.”
Harcourt needed to justify her arrangements. “Project Nexus, the European task force, will need more specific intelligence before committing their already stretched resources. That's where we come in. We have two dead Frenchmen to investigate. I admit that they could be tourists or innocent visitors but that is highly unlikely considering the circumstances of their deaths. If we accept that they could be potential terrorists, we have to prove it one way or the other.”
Massey was refusing to submit. “So, how would a dash across the channel help? We won't have any jurisdiction in France.”
“If we can find evidence to connect the two stiffs here with organised crime there, we can pass on any info.”
“So, what's the role of this Louise woman? Isn't that her mission?”
“As I explained earlier, the agent from our security services already in situ is poised to infiltrate the possible source of these questionable arrivals in the U.K. Once we know the source and how the system works, that knowledge could assist in tracing the loose ends here. By liaising with her, we can report our findings based on a thorough objective investigation. That way, we can act quickly before involving specialist teams on what could be a wild goose chase.”
Massey was still unconvinced. “Surely, she can accomplish that without our involvement.”
Harcourt was not prepared to yield to Massey's objections. “If we sit on our backsides here and wait for the French to act, we could be sitting on a time-bomb. Can you imagine the carnage that suicide bombers would cause in a forty to fifty thousand capacity stadium?”
Newton was enjoying the contest between the two senior officers. It was coming to the boil nicely, he thought. He had to fan the flames. “Almost eighty thousand if they hit Old Trafford.”
Massey turned to Harcourt. “I take your point, but it's such short notice. Is there no one else who could step in? I'm in the process of a major house move. My furniture arrives this weekend. I intended to spend the time moving in and unpacking.” He looked at Newton. “I bet you're free to go this weekend.”
Before Newton could reply, Harcourt stepped in. “We've been specifically assigned to the investigation. Superintendent Richardson was insistent that your experience of dealing with the French authorities would be invaluable.”
“That reputation is a load of bollocks. I was fortunate to have a member in my team who had a moderate grasp of the language.”
Harcourt could see the winning post. “It'll be a breeze. Most foreigners speak English these days, especially those in positions of authority. Besides, we'll have an agent in situ who is most likely French, so we can rely on her. I promise that when we get back, we'll organise a moving-in party for you. Out of Ashton and Bootle Street nicks, I'm sure we'll have plenty of volunteers. Just lay on a few beers and we'll sort you out in no time.”
Newton could hardly contain himself. “Count me in. That's a great idea.”
Damn, thought Massey. There go my plans with Caroline. It sounds like a complete waste of time, effort and money. How the hell has she wangled an unnecessary trip abroad?
Harcourt consulted her diary again. “Monsieur Fauchet, the ex-gendarme, has booked us in at the Hotel Mercure Royal Limousin. It's central in Limoges and we can rent a vehicle at the airport. As the French say… fait accompli.”
Lucky bastard, that Massey, thought Newton. He always comes up smelling of bloody roses. I hope his ticker can cope with her after his recent heart attack. Mind you, what a great way to go.
Massey was lost for words. Within hours of taking up his new appointment, his enthusiasm for the challenges ahead lay in shreds. Doubts were emerging about his decision to move on from the Metropolitan Police. Damn the timing, he thought. One week later and we could have avoided all this. Why do the politics of policing always hinder the proper implementation of the role? My focus is detective work, not gadding about chasing illegals in a foreign country. I've been stitched up like a kipper. Where was Dave Newton when I needed him? Some friend he's turned out to be.
Massey looked across at his detective sergeant. He thought that he glimpsed a smile on his face.
Newton stifled a laugh. Seeing Harcourt manipulate the normally reliable and disciplined Massey with such consummate ease was an unusual sight. “How about one for the road? You won't find any decent beer over there.” He turned towards the bar, mostly to hide the wide grin that engulfed his face.
8888
Petra awoke to a ringing sensation. Her eyes narrowed against the harsh influx of daylight as she checked her watch. The doorbell to the apartment rang once more. Bloody hell, she thought, it's only half past seven. Who on earth is that at this unearthly hour? She pulled on a lambswool sweater and wearing nothing else apart from her briefs, walked barefoot to the door and ran downstairs.
Jean-Marie stood there. He smiled at the scantily clad young woman before him. “Late night, mademoiselle?”
“Why are you so early? Don't you French people sleep?”
He looked at his watch. “It is soon nine. Normally I start at eight.”
The realisation hit her. “Oh no. I forgot about the hour difference. I'm sorry; I'll be as quick as I can. You had better come in and wait. Have I time for a quick shower?”
“Certainly. I make coffee for you.” He walked to the kitchen; he seemed to know his way around. “There is an intercom in the apartment. It is not necessary to answer the door without your clothes.”
Petra blushed and quickly headed towards the bathroom. He must think that I'm some scatty bimbo, she thought. Some first impression.
Ten minutes later, her hair still damp, but now fully clothed, Petra sipped some coffee, downed a glass of fruit juice and munched a croissant and a pain-chocolat. Jean-Marie had slipped out to buy some fresh pastries from the local boulangerie whilst she was in the shower. She could now relax. He seemed very much the gentleman.
On leaving the apartment, he led the way to his car farther along the street. “Aujourd'hui nous parlons en Français, n'est-ce pas? Je vous amène maintenant à La Bastide. Il faut souvenir la route. Dimanche après-midi vous roulez toute seule regarder le foot. Compris?”
“Oui. Today, we are speaking French. You're showing me the way to La Bastide because I'll be going there by myself on Sunday afternoon to watch a footie match.”
“Bien, Louise.”
He swung a right onto a street that led away from the town centre, bringing them to a roundabout. He explained that she should follow the N20, Rue François Chénieux, staying on that same road beyond Place Sadi Carnot. Afterwards, the road changed its name to Avenue Général Leclerc until it became Boulevard Robert Schuman. Shortly before she arrived at the Limoges Exhibition Centre, she should turn right into La Bastide. Here it became somewhat more intricate.
On arrival in La Bastide, Jean-Marie drove past the local gendarmerie. It commanded a corner site adjacent to the shopping centre where groups of males had congregated outside a bar tabac. Petra made notes. Following the road farther into the main residential area of high-rise flats, they passed a school and arrived at the football ground. He showed her where to park on Sunday.
Petra was disappointed with le stade. It was simply a football pitch, an all-weather terrain with no grass, surrounded by a metal spectator barrier. Along one side, a modern block housed the changing room facilities for the teams and officials. On the far side stood a wooden cabin that, as Jean-Marie explained, opened on match days. It provided refreshments for supporters and participants alike. There was no covered stand where one could sit to watch the game. Though grass-roots football flourished throughout France, facilities at this level varied considerably, depending on local commune investment in sporting facilities.
Jean-Marie suggested that they find a café bar away from La Bastide. Her enquiries could be compromised if someone recognised her as having accompanied a known ex-gendarme. They drove out of the area and found a café bar not too far distant. Her companion ordered a coffee. Petra preferred a fruit juice. He asked her if she would be able to remember the way to le stade on Sunday afternoon. She felt confident, especially with having taken notes. She asked him for his advice with regard to making inroads with the players.
He explained that he would be meeting two detectives who were flying over from the U.K. on Sunday morning. He would be meeting them at their hotel in Limoges and would ask them to accompany him to the match that afternoon. They would be staying at the Hotel Mercure Royal.
He thought that it would be imprudent for her to make contact with him or his visitors until later in the day, perhaps back at the hotel, which she would find next to Galeries Lafayette. In other words, she would be on her own at the match. He suggested that she should watch from the vicinity of the bar where most of the players congregated after the match and sometimes at half-time.
He tried to explain why she should choose that vantage point. “Vous êtes mignonne; utilisez vos avoirs. Soyez charmante.”
“What is ‘mignonne’? I don't know that word.”
He smiled. “Très jolie comme Brigitte Bardot quand elle était jeune. Per'aps, in English you say: a sweet young woman. Maybe Brigitte Bardot is bad example. It was long time ago.” The faraway look in his eyes betrayed nostalgia for a bygone era.
Pretty I may be, thought Petra, but how does one be charming in French with scant vocabulary?
They left the café bar and walked towards Jean-Marie's car. He spoke to her in English. “You understand all I say today?”
“For the most part. There are some words that I don't know, but I understand the general meaning. You speak to me slowly, so that's a great help.”
“On the way, you make notes to remember the route. You make the same with words. You listen, you ask, you write, you remember. It is good idea.”
They reached the vehicle. He looked at his watch. He had spent a lifetime checking his watch. It had been routine for him to know the exact time in his gendarme role. On completion of his initial training with the gendarmerie at Paris, his first post was at Guéret in the Creuse, a Département in the Limousin region. After a spell there, he opted to broaden his experience by transferring outre-mer…in France's overseas Départements. Following a period at Pointe-à-Pitre on the island of Guadeloupe and a short attachment on Martinique, he joined the traffic police division on the island of La Réunion in the Indian Ocean. On his return to Europe and France métropolitaine, he joined the gendarmerie at Bellac, some thirty kilometers north of Limoges. He remained there until his retirement. Some habits from his career stayed with him. Checking his watch regularly was second nature.
Before driving off, he turned to Petra. “At mid-day, friends visit me at my ‘ouse. My wife, she make apéritif et casse-croûte, a small refreshment. You must come also. It is good experience to meet other French people and to speak more French, yes?”
“Thank you,” Petra said, though not too enamoured with his suggestion. “You live in Limoges?”
“We live not far in a small town, which calls itself Couzeix. Now we make detour. I show you Zone Industrielle Nord and Centre Commercial at Beaubreuil. In this place, you find many shops, commerce, restaurants and hotels. It is…'ow you say…out of town centre of shopping, yes?”
“Sounds interesting.”
“If you enjoy shopping like most young persons, you must also go during your stay to Centre Commercial Saint-Martial in Limoges. There are many shops with the fashions for young woman like you. It is not far from your apartment. One can walk there. You find it on the street map.”
Petra wondered if he had any family. He seemed to be tuned in to the lifestyles of young people. She wanted to ask, but was aware that it was impolite to ask personal questions of French people. They would open up when they became better acquainted and knew that you were a person to be trusted. She decided to wait.
They turned onto the N20 towards the motorway, where they exited via a slip road leading to the vast shopping complex of Beaubreuil. Jean-Marie pointed out various areas of possible interest to her: the Cora shopping mall, the drive-thru McDonald's and the huge E. Leclerc hypermarket. They emerged from the commercial park into more open countryside that led to Couzeix.
Jean-Marie and his wife lived on the outskirts of the town in a modern pavillon style property, the equivalent of a dormer bungalow. A neat garden containing an ornamental wheelbarrow overflowing with geraniums and trailing plants fronted the bungalow. A series of stone steps gave access to the main entrance and an enclosed tiled terrace set back behind four white pillars. The property was south facing, guaranteeing a sunny eating out area during the summer months. The whole property supported an extensive garden comprising lawns, fruit trees and flowerbeds. Along one side of the plot, a small greenhouse completed a well-organised kitchen garden, where an abundance of vegetables still flourished. A stiff hedgehog-shaped brush for scraping mud from shoes sat guarding the spotless mat by the front entrance.
Petra smiled. A property that was attractive, functional and immaculate, she thought. It was an indication of Jean-Marie's lifestyle and mind-set. She could rely on his attention to detail and organised routine.
The ex-gendarme introduced Petra to his wife, a buxom homely person who seemed to possess a constant smile. Their friends, who had already arrived, also made her welcome. They, in turn, introduced her to Pastis 51, a taste not immediately to her liking. Nevertheless, it grew more palatable with every sip of the aniseed-flavoured drink.
On the table, his wife had spread charcuterie, a choice of cold meats and saucisson, slices of salame. In addition, there was a basket of freshly cut baguette, salad with vinaigrette, a range of cheeses, Brie, Cantal, Bleu d'Auvergnes and a large homemade fruit tart. He had referred to it as light refreshment, thought Petra. This is no snack; it's a feast. There was a choice of red or white wine. Coffee followed the meal together with Cognac and Calvados.
Jean-Marie's visitors lived at Condat-sur-Vienne, south of Limoges and they offered to drop Petra off at her apartment on their way home. She was grateful not to be driving. A relaxing siesta beckoned. During her stay, she would learn that the French offer genuine hospitality, in which food and drink are a major part of their social life. Deserted streets and busy restaurants during two-hour lunch breaks during the working week bore witness to that.
Petra had warmed to the retired gendarme. He showed patient understanding towards her situation and undoubtedly possessed a wealth of experience. She had learned more from him in her first twenty-four hours in France than she could have hoped to extract from a guidebook. He imparted information like an artist creating an oil painting, adding colour and depth, layer upon layer until the picture was complete.
Exhausted but satisfied with her first full day and mellowed by the pastis, she slept until the evening. She decided to eat out again at Le Café 1900, have an early night and spend the following morning, Saturday, exploring the shops. After lunch, she would tour Limoges in the car, as Jean-Marie had suggested.
So far, her mission had been most enjoyable. She realised that Sunday may change the current mood of relaxation when she would have to face making contact with the players of La Bastide football club. She feared that this could be the quiet before the storm. On the other hand, she thought that maybe socialising with a group of fit young Frenchmen might not be such an ordeal. Perhaps there were other pleasant experiences to savour. She was unaware that an adversary from her past life was about to shatter that illusion.
8888
The Boeing 737-800 crossed low over the three sculptured lakes of Saint Pardoux on its final descent into Limoges International Airport. From her window seat, D.C.I. Harcourt watched the passing landscape below.
She turned to D.C.I. Massey sitting alongside her. “It looks very green and lush down there. I expected it to be parched from the heat of the summer.”
“We're not that far south,” Massey replied. “I believe the Limousin region is an area of lakes and forests, very agricultural.”
“Mmm, someone's been doing their homework. I was anticipating lounging by the pool in my bikini. Are you saying that it's not hot in this part of France?”
Massey smiled at her flippancy. “Apparently, the weather here is very seasonal. At this time of the year, it's probably still warm during the day but chilly in the evenings. I would advise bed socks rather than bikinis.”
“How disappointing. We had better hire a car with a good heating system.”
The noise from the aircraft's engines changed as flaps slowly slid outwards from the wings. Soon, roads and hamlets were flashing swiftly by amongst the multi-coloured patchwork of fields. As they descended, houses with neat gardens and terracotta roof tiles came into view. Some properties flaunted turquoise swimming pools, a sign of hot summers rather than affluence. There was a thud and a squeal as the wheels of the aircraft hit the runway. The reverse thrust roared as the braking systems reduced the speed of the passenger jet almost to a standstill. At the end of the runway, the Boeing turned and trundled its way towards the terminal building.
The usual advice and words of gratitude for flying with Ryanair spilled from the public address system as the aircraft made a final circular turn to settle opposite the glass fronted arrivals and departure building. Passengers stretched and stood to rescue cabin baggage from the overhead lockers. Airport staff wheeled out and positioned steps at the front and rear exits.
Within ten minutes, the majority of the passengers were in baggage reclaim before entering the main concourse of the airport. The car rental offices were adjacent to the extensive car parking area facing the exit doorways of the terminal building. As they crossed to hire a vehicle for their stay, Massey noticed that the signs in and around the terminal were in French and English, doubtless signifying that the Brits were here in numbers.
After checking availability, Harcourt settled on a Peugeot 307 from Hertz. They picked up a route map, consulted with the car hire staff for directions and headed for Limoges city centre. Thirty minutes later, they were checking in at the Hotel Mercure Royal. After settling in their rooms, they met in the hotel bar, Le Renoir, where Jean-Marie Fauchet joined them.
There was no restaurant at the hotel. Jean-Marie walked them the short distance to La Vache au Plafond on the Avenue Garibaldi, where they lunched before driving to La Bastide for the afternoon match.
Petra spent Sunday morning trying on her purchases from Mim, Blue Box, H & M, Naf Naf and Boutique Jennyfer. They were only some of the many fashion shops that she had explored in Saint Martial shopping centre. Saturday morning's spending spree had been a successful expedition. Now it was time to decide on an outfit suitable for spectating and socialising at a football match.
The weather was warm and sunny. Something casual and fitting for a student of culture seemed to be the order of the day. She concluded that she should wear something chic, subtly sexy but practical. She chose Levi jeans that she had purchased from Blue Box, a white cotton tunic in broderie anglaise from H &M, a black belted trench jacket and suede ankle boots from Mim. She had also treated herself to a pair of dark Ray-Ban sunshades, having concluded that they seemed to be fashionable amongst French women. She spent an hour parading before a mirror until she was satisfied.
Petra arrived at La Bastide fifteen minutes before the match was due to start. Leaving the Clio parked on the Rue Détaille, she walked to the ground, her jacket slung over her shoulder. She wore her Ray-Bans. Her impact was immediate. She sensed a wall of male eyes, the whole gamut of ages, staring at her.
I'm over-dressed, she thought. Shit! There's no turning back now. Stay cool, ignore them and walk confidently past them. I must remain in control.
She had inadvertently achieved her objective to stand out from the crowd, even before opening her mouth. Her appearance was far from subtle. Jean-Marie's advice to stay close to the bar area was intended to be conducive to keeping an initial low profile. Such anonymity was difficult to achieve considering the continued stares in her direction. Certainly, it was some distance away from the players’ changing rooms, an area crowded with participants, officials and supporters of the two teams. However, she opted to position herself in a quieter area of the ground, somewhere devoid of people. She considered it more prudent to drift towards the bar when all eyes focussed on the game.
When the match eventually kicked off there was still no sign of Jean-Marie. Cautiously, intent on attracting as little attention as possible, she edged her way towards the bar. She chose a spot at a corner of the building where she could watch the game in the comfort of her own space. La Bastide had already scored one goal when Jean-Marie arrived with a couple, a man and a woman, whom she assumed were the detectives from England. She was unsure. Perhaps they had failed to arrive and he was with some friends. They made their way to the far side beyond the changing rooms. She was still on her own, dreading the half-time whistle.
Ignoring the action on the football pitch, Jean-Marie was attempting to explain the role of Louise Charrière, the young woman sent over by the security services. He pointed her out to the two detectives.
“From this distance, she looks more like a French tart to me,” Harcourt remarked disdainfully.
Jean-Marie shrugged his shoulders. “I find ‘er very pleasant and sensible. Maybe she is a little nervous, but that I understand with ‘er limited knowledge of the language.”
Harcourt fixed Massey with a sideways quizzical look. “She's not French then?”
The ex-gendarme shook his head. “I am surprised also.”
Massey wondered at the lack of common sense with regard to the strategy of her employers. He addressed Jean-Marie. “Do you think she'll have any success?”
“Maybe she ‘as more chance than I ‘ave. Already I ask questions quietly at the club, but always the players say I must speak with Ludo. When I ask, ‘e tell me it is for ‘im to decide who play, who stay and who leave the football club. Always ‘e say that it is scouters who find and send ‘im the players?”
Massey smiled. “Scouts.”
“Thank you. ‘e ‘as big ideas, I think. ‘e want this club to become the top club of Limoges, to play in the Championnat. ‘e think ‘e is Arsene Wenger.”
Harcourt appeared slightly bemused. “Who is Ludo?”
Jean-Marie pointed towards the touchline. “Ludovic Roche, that large man in the blue tracksuit over there with the other players. Ludo is the trainer.”
Roche sat on a bench with three substitute players. A large muscular man with close-cropped dark hair, he looked quite Mediterranean with deep-set brown eyes and a dark skinned complexion. He constantly leaped from his seat, forceful and animated as he bellowed instructions towards his players.
Massey leaned over the barrier to get a better view of Roche before turning to Jean-Marie. “How long has he been in charge?”
“This is the second season. ‘e is from Marseille but live ‘ere long time, several years now. The gendarmerie believe that ‘e ‘as still connections in Marseille where ‘e get a criminal record.”
“And here?” Harcourt asked.
“The gendarmerie watch ‘im, but no, not ‘ere.”
Massey was concerned about the man's background. “What were his offences in Marseille?”
“Not serious: robbery, assault, but no crime with a weapon. They gaoled ‘im two or three times. Perhaps there are other crimes but nothing is proved.”
Harcourt was surprised. “If he's an ex-con, how was he allowed to become the trainer here?”
Once again, Jean-Marie shrugged his shoulders. “There is no opposition, no-one with ‘is football experience.”
Massey was intrigued. “I assume that as a trainer for a small football club, this is only part-time and he has another full-time job.”
“I believe ‘e get benefit from the state. Also, it is known that ‘e work the markets but is never there. Others manage the markets for ‘im, but ‘e take profit from the sales. It is easy to cheat the system in France. Always one pay with money, cash. Nothing is in ‘is name, but always Roche buy expensive clothes and big car.”
“Are these permanent markets?” Harcourt asked. “Surely, they must be monitored by the tax authorities?”
Jean-Marie smiled. “The man knows ‘ow to cheat the system by using vide-greniers and the marchés aux puces. You say empty lofts and markets of fleas?”
Massey laughed. “We call them car boot sales, but perhaps cash in the attic is closer and we have flea markets like you.”
“In France, there is little control over these affairs, but that is not important. I think that bigger income for Roche come from this other business, but again nothing is proved.”
Suddenly, Harcourt became more attentive. “When you say ‘this other business’, you mean people trafficking into the U.K.?”
Jean-Marie lowered his voice. “It is known that immigrants from the African continent come into Spain, Italy and France. We try prevent this, but it is difficult. Why you think we build Sangatte in Pas de Calais before?” He shrugged in response to his own question. “It is possible that some connections in Marseille send to Roche young black people because of this football club. At La Bastide, the most players are young black Frenchmen. It is easy to conceal and to lose new ones in this area. Perhaps ‘e provide the false passports and football identity cards that you say you now find. It is also possible that ‘e organise the travel to England.”
Massey shook his head in amazement. “That, in itself, is illegal. Why not arrest him?”
“Yes, you are right, but we ‘ave no proof. Now, your people think that these young black people are Moslem extremists trained to be suicide bombers. Again, there is no proof. That is why the young woman over there is ‘ere…to find the proof. You come because you find two dead French boys perhaps from La Bastide and you must investigate the deaths.”
Harcourt and Massey remained silent. Jean-Marie was right. Everything regarding Roche was either circumstantial or based on supposition. With no evidence, any case against him was a non-starter. Nevertheless, thought Massey, it seemed strange that the local gendarmerie had not investigated him more thoroughly. Perhaps their presence and the arrival of an agent from the security services might prompt some action.
Dark clouds drifted in from the west, obscuring the afternoon sun. The temperature cooled as spots of rain began to fall. La Bastide scored two more goals with only a few minutes left before half-time. The referee blew his whistle ending the half. La Bastide were leading three goals to nil against a lower league team from Magnac Laval. This was a cup match that provided little contest between two mismatched teams.
To avoid the rain, Petra edged under a large Perspex canopy overhanging the bar area. The players and the trainers of both teams trudged towards their respective changing rooms. Petra decided to buy a drink quickly as the majority of spectators were gravitating towards the shelter of the bar area to avoid the rain. A teenage boy and a formidable looking woman with dark red-dyed hair were serving drinks.
“Un Coca-Cola, s'il vous plaît,” Petra said to the woman.
A voice to one side surprised her. “You must be English.”
She turned to see one of La Bastide's substitutes behind her. He was one of two white players who had been on the bench. In his hands, he was holding empty water bottles that he passed to the young boy behind the bar to fill. “Plus de l'eau.”
Petra smiled at him. “How did you know that I was English?” she asked.
“Easy. The French would merely ask for coca and they rarely say please. I've not seen you here before. You on holiday?”
“I'm on a secondment, studying at the university.”
He looked around. He seemed puzzled. Was it because a young English woman was at the match, apparently on her own? It was as if he expected her to be accompanied. “Has someone brought you? Are you staying locally?”
Stick to your story, she thought. “I like football. Someone told me that La Bastide was the best team around here, so I decided to come along and see for myself.”
The young boy from the bar passed the refilled containers to the footballer.
“Look, I have to go. It's team talk time in the changing room.”
Petra was interested. She had to ask him. “Are you French or English?”
“Er, French, but American with a bit of Russian thrown in for good measure. It's complicated. Can I talk to you later? Stick around until the end of the game. My name is Alexis. What's yours?”
“Pleased to meet you, Alexis. I'm Louise.”
As he ran off with his water bottles, she could not believe her luck. An English-speaking player, she thought. That'll make life easier. I must cultivate him…and he's dead fit.
The weather had steadily worsened. She huddled under the canopy with the other spectators and quietly sipped her coca. She looked across the pitch. Jean-Marie and his companions had disappeared, probably because of the weather.
Not to worry, she thought, I'll be meeting them later at the hotel. In the meantime there's a second half to endure, now pleasantly enhanced by the prospect of chatting to Alexis.
At four forty five, the referee blew his whistle to signal the end of the match and a resounding win for La Bastide. Petra ordered a jus d'orange and edged back towards the end of the bar. She remained sufficiently below the canopy to shield herself from the rain. Some spectators began to drift in her direction for refreshments where they indulged in small talk and friendly banter with each other. Many had already departed, doubtless in a rush to avoid any further deterioration in the weather. The players and officials crossed towards the changing rooms.
Eventually, players from both teams began to emerge from the shower blocks and joined those gathered at the bar. Petra distanced herself, hoping to deter any others who might try to engage her in conversation.
Alexis extricated himself from amongst his team-mates and joined her. “So, what are you studying at uni?”
Oh God, thought Petra. I hope he's not a student there also. No matter, I must stay with the game plan.
“European Cultural Studies. I'm only here for a short-term secondment as part of a project at home. Are you a student?”
“Not any longer. I'm a trainee accountant. I work for a company in Limoges.”
“You said that you were part American. I didn't think that Americans played football. I thought they were more into rounders, netball and their weird version of rugby.”
Alexis laughed. “You mean baseball, basketball and American football. I'm part American, part French and even part Russian and all those nationalities play football, especially here and in Russia. In the States, it's becoming more popular since Beckham went over there. I assume you've heard of him?”
“Along with Ryan Giggs, he was my favourite when I used to watch Manchester United.”
“You watched Manchester United and saw David Beckham,” exclaimed Alexis. “Lucky you. I've only seen them on TV, apart from when they played Lyon in a European game in 2008, but Beckham had left by then. I went with a friend. We bought our tickets from France Billet. Unfortunately we were with the Lyon supporters.”
Petra needed to turn the conversation in a different direction. “Your team here seems to consist of mostly black players. Why is that?”
“This part of Limoges has a large immigrant population and, of course, they're brilliant players. That's why we win so many matches.”
“Do you live locally?”
“Not too far away. I can show you if you like.”
Petra was in two minds. Perhaps she should have accepted his offer, but was wary of appearing too pushy. She was desperate to spend time with him to pursue her enquiries but this moment was inappropriate. There were far too many people around.
“Thanks. Maybe some other time.” Her remark left it open for him to suggest another time. Would he grasp the opportunity? She did not have long to wait.
“How about tomorrow?”
“I thought that you worked in Limoges.”
“I mean tomorrow evening. I could meet you somewhere near here. Look, there's a bar-tabac called Le Capricorne, not far from where I live. How about meeting up there, say at seven or I could pick you up at uni after I leave the office?”
“The bar will be fine. I'll need directions, of course.” The other option was out of the question.
He acquired paper and a pen from the redhead behind the bar and sketched a plan showing the location of the rendezvous. Luckily, it was on the main road from the city centre before the turn for La Bastide. They also exchanged mobile numbers in case any problems arose.
Alexis rejoined his team-mates, excited by the prospect of a date with such a beautiful young woman. Petra left to meet up with Jean-Marie and the detectives, pleased with the opportunity that she had created.
8888
Petra parked the Clio in a side street alongside La Place de la République. There were plenty of spaces available; the city centre was quieter on Sunday. Although the rain had eased slightly, she hurried across the square to the hotel. When damp, her long hair lost volume. She wanted to be at her best to make a good first impression. At reception, she asked the whereabouts of the English couple who had checked in that morning. The receptionist indicated the bar.
The two detectives sat at a table with Jean-Marie. He spotted her as she entered. He waved to her. “Ici, Louise.”
The woman facing her seemed quite attractive, thought Petra, probably in her mid-thirties. She wore a bright red cotton blouse with long sleeves turned back at the cuffs and black tailored trousers. The man, casually dressed in sweatshirt and jeans, had his back to her.
Jean-Marie stood. “I like to introduce Louise Charrière.”
Petra was about to shake their hands when Massey turned to greet her.
“Oh, my God,” she uttered. “You again.”
Recognising her instantly, he spun in his chair. “That's not Louise Charrière, that's Petra Rebovka.” He squared up to her. “What the hell are you up to?”
Harcourt was bewildered. “What's going on?”
Petra edged around the table, tactfully choosing a vacant chair between Jean-Marie and Harcourt, where she could sit facing her one-time nemesis.
Disturbed by the raised voices, other customers in the bar were glancing towards them.
Jean-Marie spread both hands, pushing them downwards in an effort to deflate the situation. “Doucement, doucement. It is necessary to be calm.”
He turned to Petra and addressed her with the more intimate tu as opposed to using the more general vous. It was his way of showing concern for the young woman, as a caring father would speak to his daughter. “Qu'est-ce que tu veux boire?”
Petra was determined to answer in French, principally to upset and maybe quieten Massey. “Jus d'orange, s'il vous plaît, Jean-Marie.”
He summoned a waiter and ordered the orange juice.
Ignoring Massey's glare, Petra leaned forward across the table towards the ex-gendarme. She explained that she had met a player and arranged a meeting with him. “Cet aprés-midi, j'ai rencontré un joueur. J'ai parlé avec lui. Nous avons un rendez-vous demain.”
“Bien, Louise. Tu as expliqué pourquoi il faut avoir le discours?”
“Non, pas de tout.”
Harcourt interrupted. “Excuse me. Is it possible to speak a language that is common to us all?” Still confused by the situation, she glanced at Massey, hoping for some explanation.
Her colleague had continued to stare silently at Petra as though he had seen a ghost. Inwardly he seethed in the knowledge that he had gained a conviction against her for murder, a verdict that the court had subsequently overturned, quite unjustly in many opinions. He already knew of her premature release courtesy of the security services, but was shocked and dismayed to find her fronting this particular investigation.
He was unable to contain his anger and resentment. “I refuse to work with her. She cannot be trusted. She's a liar and a murderer. It's finished. I'm on the next flight out of here.”
Petra snapped back. “Suit yourself. I have no choice. You know who owns me now and why I have a job to complete. This is what one might class as high-grade community service…in the danger zone. If you can't hack it, that's your problem.”
Harcourt raised her voice once more. “Can someone please tell me what is going on?”
Jean-Marie glared at everyone. “Arrêtez…stop… stop now. I not know your problem, but sometimes it is necessary to work with people when there is conflict. It is like so in a war when one ‘as a common enemy. To win we work as a team for the same objective. It is like that now. Everyone ‘elp each other. Your differences are not important. We work to win the battle. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” Harcourt muttered, still mystified by Massey's outburst.
Massey nodded, but remained silent.
Petra replied in French again. “D'accord.” She was still determined to rise above Massey's petulance and settle an old score. Fifteen love to me, she thought.
Jean Marie was losing his patience. He was involved as a favour to assist Petra in infiltrating the football club. His secondary role was to protect her during her stay. He was not prepared to waste precious time arbitrating the disagreements across the table.
“Louise, she say she make a contact at the football. She meet with ‘im tomorrow.” He turned to Petra. “This contact you make this afternoon, ‘e is reliable?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I have only arranged a meeting with him. Until then, I really don't know. He's the white player who was a substitute today. He speaks perfect English, which should make life easier. He said that he was part American, part French and part Russian.”
Massey smirked. “He's probably involved with the Russian mafia, knowing her track record.” He was still quite willing to discredit whatever she reported.
Jean-Marie ignored the detective's comment. “I know this young man…'e is very correct, ‘ow you say…good-mannered? They call ‘im Alexis. Before, ‘is father manage the team, until ‘e die in tragic accident with car. Roche follow as new trainer.”
“Who's Roche?” Petra asked.
Harcourt related the discussion that had taken place earlier at the football ground. Jean-Marie added that it would be useful if she could speak with Alexis about the current trainer's activities at the club.
Not wishing to be sidelined, Massey pushed copies of two photos across the table towards Petra. “You could also ask him if he recognises these individuals. They both carried membership cards for the football club.” He pointed at the photos. “This one was found murdered in Moss Side, Manchester. The other one died in a motoring accident in Derbyshire. Ask him to explain that.”
“And posing as a student at the university, how do I explain being in possession of photos provided by Greater Manchester Police? So much for protecting my cover.”
Harcourt stepped in and offered a solution. “Could you not say that a friend sent them to you, knowing that you are from that area and that you are now studying in Limoges? She could have taken them from, say the Manchester Evening News. The newspaper could have published them on behalf of the police in their quest for the youths’ identities.”
Petra pouted her lips and shrugged again. “I suppose so, but it's a bit far fetched.”
Massey's confrontation with Petra continued. “Is that a refusal to help?”
“Not at all. I'll give it a shot. I'm just concerned about blowing my cover. I'm aware of the connection, but my brief differs from the focus of your visit here.”
Massey still argued. “I disagree. If your contact is unable to recognise these guys, our suspicions will be confirmed. It will prove that they were not involved with the football club. We will have made some progress towards establishing that this place is possibly some kind of transit point to the U.K. for illegal immigrants. Have you heard of Project Nexus?”
Petra shook her head.
“I thought not,” Massey said, confident that his knowledge and experience would make her aware of her standing in the pecking order. “Project Nexus is a European initiative dedicated to counter-terrorism. Their surveillance systems are far superior to anything that we may implement here. I believe that your objective is to infiltrate, gather what intelligence you can, report back and get out. Our objective runs in tandem, but links more specifically to the deaths of these two young men in the U.K. You, D.C.I. Harcourt and I are small fry in this investigation. We are just foot soldiers, preparing the way for the main task force.”
There was a silence. Petra wished that Rob were alongside to support her. She was a novice, especially in the counter-terrorism community. Maybe head office had assigned her to a low-key assignment in order to test her capabilities. Massey's arrival on the scene was only complicating matters.
Jean-Marie came to her rescue. “Petra, what time you meet Alexis?”
“Seven o'clock tomorrow evening.”
Jean-Marie folded his arms across his chest, suggesting by his body language that he was about to end the discussion. “I suggest that we all meet again in the hotel early on Tuesday morning. Tomorrow, I arrange meeting for the detectives at the gendarmerie in La Bastide. There we discuss the situation with the police judiciaire. They ‘ave responsibility for enforcement of law and investigation. They also ‘ave the power to arrest and to detain any suspects if it is necessary.”
He addressed Massey and Harcourt. “You ask them about Roche. Maybe their knowledge of ‘im ‘elp your investigation.”
He turned to Petra. “You stay in Limoges and you explain to your people what ‘appen today. In the evening, you question the young man. On Tuesday we share what we know at our reunion.”
With those few words, Jean-Marie managed to diffuse an awkward situation and leave all concerned with something to anticipate. Petra left with the ex-gendarme, thanked him for his support and headed for her apartment, cursing the involvement of Massey. She parked the car and decided to walk to ‘Le Café 1900’ for a large glass of wine before retiring.
The bar was quiet. It was early evening. Feeling somewhat depressed and lonely, she contemplated phoning Alexis. She was tempted, but decided that she had to remain professional and keep to the script. She returned to the apartment, tossed a frozen lasagne in the microwave, opened a bottle of Bergerac and poured herself a large glass. Two glasses later, the realisation hit her.
I haven't phoned Klara about meeting Massey, she thought. She'll be absolutely gobsmacked. She started giggling as she dialled the number. Five minutes later, both sisters were revelling in their collective repartee.
Klara was certainly surprised. “I thought you said that he had transferred to London.”
Petra laughed, unaware of the tragic circumstances that had driven Massey back to the North West. “They must have kicked him out for asking too many awkward questions.”
“How bizarre that he should turn up in France. Who's the woman that's with him?”
“Some other detective from Manchester. She seems to have the measure of him. Perhaps when I meet them again, I should just confide in her and ignore him. That'll piss him off even more.”
“You must keep me posted. I see nothing but trouble brewing between you two.”
“Well, he didn't like me before, so there's no change there. Anyway, this time I don't have to do what he says. I can tell him to get stuffed and he can't do a bloody thing about it.”
“I wish I'd been there to see the look on his face when you turned up.”
Petra laughed again. “Priceless, absolutely fuckin’ priceless.” Her mood had now changed considerably. A renewed confidence had replaced her earlier depression and loneliness. “Klara, you remember that day we lunched at Dunham Massey and discussed my action plan?”
“I can hardly forget it, listening to your crazy ideas and those insane rants threatening murderous revenge for Tati's death.”
“I was pumped up, absolutely on fire that day. I feel like that now. Forget Massey. I'm on a mission, I'm in control…I can take on the world.”
“Sis, I think international terrorists are a slightly scarier proposition than a small-time Manchester gangster called Billy Day.”
“Agreed, but we were novices then, just the two of us. Yet we still pulled it off. We got a result. This time, I have the support of a counter-terrorism team, Interpol and all the security forces of Europe behind me.”
Klara attempted to bring her sister down to earth. “I thought you were over there to check out a local footie team.”
“Yes, but it's all part of some widespread surveillance operation against terrorism.”
Klara was sceptical. She knew her sister too well. “If it's such a big deal, should we be discussing it over the phone?”
Petra started giggling again. “D'you reckon our phones are bugged?”
“I bloody well hope not. I don't want some stranger listening to my private conversations. Anyway, it'll be you that they want to check out, not me. I'm just an ordinary citizen. You're on a crusade to save the world. That's far more important.”
Petra could hardly speak through her bouts of laughter. “Is that how you see me…as a crusader?”
“Not really. You're just my crazy big sister. You see yourself as some do-gooder. When you think about it, it's a little hypocritical considering your past misdemeanours.”
“Watch this space, Klara. I'm on a roll.”
She was even more intoxicated by the time the call ended, but now believed that once again she was in control. Her encounter with Massey still occupied her thoughts. He might be small fry, she thought, but I'm playing on the first team. She turned to refill her glass. The bottle was empty.
That night, Petra slept well. She devoured the lasagne for breakfast, despite the hangover.