In accordance with Jean-Marie's suggestion, Petra contacted Rob at mid-day to update him with a progress report. Amused by her encounter with Massey, he went to great lengths to convince her that he was unaware of that particular detective's involvement. It was no set-up. He emphasised that, contrary to Massey's perception, their objectives were quite different.
He advised her to use her charms on the young footballer to pick his brains. She was by no means averse to that suggestion; in fact, she was prepared to pick any part of the handsome young man. She made no comment. He suggested that she should avoid the two detectives and focus on her gendarme contact. He admitted to be baffled by their visit, as the French authorities could have made enquiries about the two young men on their behalf. Obviously, he had never crossed paths with D.C.I. Harcourt who constantly manipulated colleagues and the system to pursue her own agenda.
Petra thanked him for his support and promised to forge ahead with her specific objectives. Jean-Marie had arranged to escort the detectives to the gendarmerie at La Bastide. She decided therefore to spend some time studying the French language C.D.s that she had brought with her. Content with the fact that she had encountered an English speaking contact, she was now more relaxed about her mission.
A storm was raging as she approached the area of La Bastide later in the day. She turned off the dual carriageway into a side road opposite Aldi Marché. Her screen wipers could barely cope with the excessive downpour. The cloudburst, combined with the spray from the road surface, almost obliterated her vision. Eventually, through the pervading gloom, she found a space in a tree-lined street where signs allowed parking in designated areas on the pavement.
She dashed from her Clio towards Le Capricorne in an effort to avoid a soaking. Alexis had been waiting for her in his car in the Aldi parking area opposite, but she failed to see him. She was still shaking the raindrops from her coat as he entered swiftly behind her.
The bar area was busy with mostly male customers who were either checking their lotto cards or engaged in conversation over a glass of Ricard. He escorted her through a separate area where some older cloth-capped men sat around a table playing belote, a popular card game. The scene reminded her of a reproduction painting bought at an auction by her late father. It was entitled The Card Players by Paul Cézanne.
Alexis chose a table at the rear of the premises, ordered some drinks and sat facing her. “But for the weather, we could have sat on the terrace outside. During the summer months, I have often spent some enjoyable evenings out there.”
Petra looked through the glazed patio doors. A high wall, washed with faded terracotta paint enclosed the secluded terrace. Empty hanging baskets and wooden planters were still in place, awaiting next year's spring bulbs and seedlings. Sheltered from the inclement weather at one end of the patio, wrought-iron garden furniture was in storage under a makeshift cover of timber and corrugated plastic sheets.
Unsure of what approach she should take with her new acquaintance, she decided to follow his lead. “I imagine that it is quite a popular venue on warm summer nights.”
“We refer to it as le local. It's the kind of place where young people with strong philosophical agendas congregate to air their views, especially opinionated students.” Alexis smiled. “We consider it to be the Latin Quarter of Limoges. Compared to Paris, however, the intellectual level is pretty basic.”
Petra determined to show an interest. “So, what do you discuss in these debates?”
“Oh, the usual stuff: global economic and ecological issues, politics, nationalism, foreign policy, the threat of terrorism…in other words, the mundane regurgitation of current affairs. Talking of students…how was uni today?”
“I spent most of the day studying in my apartment.” Her remark was not far from the truth. “There were no relative tutorials, so there was no need to be there. This afternoon I strolled around the town until the weather changed for the worse. Slowly but surely, I'm finding my way around.”
How strange that he should mention terrorism, she thought. Just as quickly, she dismissed the notion.
Alex had his mind on other issues. “If you need a guide, you need only ask.”
Petra smiled. He was angling. She could not afford to allow him access to her fabricated world. Best to keep him at arms length for the time being, to only encourage encounters on his territory, she thought. Once she had sufficient information, perhaps she could lower her defences a little.
She sipped her fruit juice. It was time to probe. “You didn't play on Sunday. Are you often a substitute?”
“Quite often unfortunately, but I usually make an eventual appearance in most games.”
“Why are there so few white players? Is it really because the local population are mostly coloured or is the club guilty of some form of racial discrimination?”
Alexis grinned and shook his head. “Like I said yesterday, this part of Limoges has a large community of immigrants from former French colonies, so they are the dominant population. Besides, they are good players. Most of them dream about playing for the national team or joining a top club, either here in France or more especially in Spain and England where money is the main attraction.”
“How many players are members of the football club?”
Alexis puffed out his cheeks. “Not sure exactly…probably about thirty.”
Petra feigned surprise. “That many. No wonder that you don't always get a game. It must be quite disconcerting not to be picked on a regular basis. I suppose players move on to other clubs if they get overlooked too often. Do they have to wait until the next season to change clubs?”
“It's not that depressing. The club supports two teams that play in different pools. Most players stay for the duration of the season. Sometimes new players join the training sessions, but some don't sign on unless there's a chance to play.”
“I expect that there are other teams nearby where the locals can get a game?”
“Oh, they're not always local guys. I don't know many of them or where they're from. They probably want to play here because of the club's reputation. It's the same at any level, I suppose. If there was a chance to play for Marseille or Bordeaux as opposed to Chateauroux or Calais, there's no contest.”
Petra opened her bag. “It's really bizarre. A friend of mine in Manchester sent me some newspaper pics of two young Frenchman who have died there. She sent them because they were from Limoges and they apparently played football for La Bastide. You must know them.” She passed the copies of the photos across the table.
Alexis picked them up and studied them closely. “I've never seen them,” he said with a puzzled expression. He peered more closely. “These are their registration cards for the current season. How weird. Maybe other players have made their acquaintance. Do you want me to ask around?”
Petra quickly snatched back the copies. “No, it's not important. There must have been a mistake. Who issues those cards?”
“The Haute Vienne Football Federation offices at Limoges. The players complete them at the start of the season. One section is returned to the F.F.F. and the other part belongs to the player. It's his I.D. to prove that he has signed on, a doctor has passed him fit and he carries insurance. The referee checks them at each match to prove that all the participating players are registered. If a player forgets his I.D., he cannot play. To prevent that situation it's easier to keep all the cards together. Here at La Bastide and at most other clubs, the manager retains the cards. Players here don't normally hold onto their registrations. Perhaps those two had signed up but moved on before joining us.”
“You seem to know a lot about the system.”
“My father used to be the manager here until he died in a motoring accident a couple of years ago.”
“Oh dear…I am sorry. What happened?”
“He was killed by a hit-and-run driver shortly after leaving a training session at the ground.”
“Did they find the driver?”
Alexis shook his head. “The police investigated but, despite appeals for witnesses, the case was closed as no-one came forward.”
“How awful.” Petra showed some empathy towards his obvious sadness. “You must have been devastated.”
“One day…one day the truth will out.”
Petra continued to probe into the club's affairs. “So, who manages the club now?”
“Ludo, Ludovic Roche. He took over straightaway. He considered himself my father's assistant and took charge without any official appointment or even any opposition. He's been there ever since, but the atmosphere's not the same now.”
“I take it that you don't approve.”
“There's a very strong clique within the club now. By having favourites, he has taken full control of everything. He was always in disagreement with my father. There were some terrible arguments. All that has changed since my father died. He runs the club like a dictator, bullies everyone in order to get his own way. Some players are quite fearful of him.”
“Why don't people stand up to him?” Alexis's evident loathing towards the man intrigued her.
“It's a successful club. He gets results, so why rock the boat? Consequently, it doesn't pay to cross him. Ludo originates from Marseille and still keeps in touch with former cronies there. They visit occasionally. I've met one of them a couple of times. He has connections with Marseille football club, one of the top teams in France. I suppose that he's quite a useful contact for up and coming young players with talent to progress. I've chatted with him, mostly about football matters.”
“But you say that you're seldom picked for the team. Why do you still play for them?”
“I often ask myself the same question. I suppose that it's because I love football, I have friends there and it's convenient. In addition, I think that Roche knows more than he lets on about my father's death. By staying on, I can keep an eye on him. One day he may slip up. I'm determined to unearth the truth.”
“You think that he was responsible for your father's accident?”
“I wouldn't go that far. He plays his cards close to his chest. If he wasn't involved directly, I'm certain that he knows more than he cares to admit.” Alexis sipped his beer. “I've said too much. You must be bored. Let's talk about you. I only know that you're a student.”
Petra realised that not only had she found a contact in the football club but also a possible ally. She was discovering a less public side to the club's affairs. The personal issues between Alexis and Roche were not within her remit, but she was forming the impression that Roche was a nasty character who could be quite capable of criminal activity.
She needed to prevent the conversation drifting in her direction. “I would never have guessed that so much intrigue lay hidden behind the scenes. Thank you for being so open with me, especially as you hardly know me. For all you know, I could be a spy for Monsieur Roche.” She giggled, partly from amusement. It was her way of diluting the intrusiveness of his questions.
“You're far too nice for anything like that.” Alexis finished his beer. “Say, why don't you come and meet my family? I live fairly close.”
She considered it more prudent to become involved in his domain as opposed to inviting him into her contrived situation. Besides, it would be an opportunity to learn more about La Bastide, the objective of her mission. Having found the chat with Alexis to be easy and relaxing, she accepted his invitation readily.
During those first moments with him, she had merely scratched the surface. He had confirmed her first impressions from the football match. Apart from his good looks, he exuded great charm and courtesy towards her. He stood at least six feet tall, blue eyed with the figure of an athlete, one who played football and possibly other sports. He was obviously bi-lingual and could possibly speak Russian. As a trainee accountant, he was probably quite intelligent, but could be equally amusing, as she had already discovered.
Besides his confident manner and candour, there seemed to be a deeper side to his nature, an aspect yet to probe. Though he had captivated her from the start, her new acquaintance would intrigue her even more. She finished her drink and followed him from the comfort of the bar into the relentless downpour outside.
“Where have you parked your car?” he shouted before she dashed away to avoid the rain.
Petra pointed towards the side street.
“Wait for me there. I'll turn down the street and you can follow. I live not far from the football ground.”
Petra was unaware that this invitation alone would begin to turn her world upside down.
8888
As Alexis opened the door to his apartment, he turned to Petra and said hesitantly, “I live with my grand'maman. She is my family. Both my parents are dead. I'm afraid that she's eighty three years old, but sometimes acts like a teenager.”
Petra was unsure whether to smile or empathise. “I'm sorry. I mean, I'm sorry that both your parents have died.”
“I'm sure that you will like grand'maman. She speaks very good English, considering that she is Russian. She spent most of her life in America. She speaks very little French. She does not like them very much.”
He led the way into a dark, lavender scented hallway, an aroma that reminded Petra of her own grandparents’ house when she was a toddler. A door on the right was ajar, revealing a surprisingly modern kitchen. Alexis tapped gently on a closed door opposite. He opened it slightly and peered inside the room.
“Hi, grand'maman, are you asleep?”
“If I was asleep, I would be awake by now…and stop calling me grand'maman. There's nothing French about me. If you are coming in, shut the door. I'm reading, so I don't want to be disturbed. That means none of that dreadful music of yours to distract me. It's bad enough with the atrocious weather. The sky out there is laden with doom and foreboding.”
“I've brought someone to meet you.” He took Petra's hand and drew her into the living room. It was furnished tastefully, but still exuded a homely, comfortable feel. Petra was surprised by the luxurious furnishings and particularly by an enormous floor-to-ceiling bookcase that filled the length of one wall.
His grandmother sat in a soft leather chair. It was well worn but looked comfortable, almost moulded to her shape through years of togetherness. She faced a mock Italian marble fireplace, complete with a wrought iron basket and imitation coals. Obviously, it was a centrally heated apartment. For an octogenarian, the old woman was immaculately dressed with perfectly styled hair, soft silver in colour. On seeing Petra, she removed her spectacles and placed them on a low side table with the book that she had been reading.
Her eyes glinted with a sparkle and brightness that belied her age. “Welcome, my dear. You must be Louise. I have been waiting to meet you since Alexis told me about your chance encounter at the football yesterday. You have chosen a dreadful day to visit. Mind you, I am sure that the storm will have subsided by the time you leave.”
She rose from her chair with the aid of a silver-topped cane, crossed to Petra and gently kissed her on both cheeks. She stepped back a pace and deliberately scanned her from head to foot. She nodded her head slightly as a sign of approval. Her silver hair gleamed in the artificial light from a leaded crystal chandelier.
Petra felt a shiver run down her spine. Her mind flashed back to her teenage years, to the fortune-teller whom she had visited at a May fair. She too had been an old woman, but haggard and intimidating. However, this old woman was different. She was elegant and refined. Immediately, she seduced Petra in a similar way, but this time the experience was pleasant.
“Well, Louise, you sure do live up to expectations. Do you take tea?”
Petra nodded. “Yes, please, that would be nice. France seems to be a nation of coffee drinkers.”
“They have some strange habits over here. They put fruit syrups in their beer. Have they no respect for the skills of the brewers? I used to like a good beer in my younger days. I settle for tea now.” She turned to her grandson. “Alexis, off you go and make a pot of tea and make sure that you use the English tea bags.” She turned back to Petra. “The French make tea like dishwater, don't you think?”
Petra smiled. She was warming to his grandmother with her every utterance.
The old woman sank once again into the folds of her armchair. “Now, pull up a chair and sit by me.”
Petra positioned herself alongside on a Bergère armchair covered in a beautiful toile de jouler fabric. Alexis disappeared towards the kitchen. His grandmother leaned forward, placing her carefully manicured hand on Petra's knee. Three diamond cluster rings adorned her fingers. They sparkled and danced, matching the vitality in her eyes.
She leaned in towards Petra. “You are the first young lady whom Alexis has ever brought home. He is normally mad about his football. He never has time for romance or the opposite sex. He prattles constantly about Bordeaux or Marseille and spends all his free time either training or playing. Sometimes he disappears for days on end and when I enquire, the answer is always the same. He has been visiting some other part of France to watch football. It's unnatural for a handsome young man to be besotted by twenty two men running around in their shorts, don't you think?”
Petra grinned, lost for words.
The old woman continued. “I was astonished when he told me that he had met ‘the most beautiful girl in the world’. That is how he described you.” She smiled. “He was not wrong.”
Petra lowered her head, allowing her long hair to hide her blushes. She was unused to such forthright compliments.
“Alexis tells me that you are an English student at the university, but you are not English are you?”
Her words startled Petra for an instant. She took a few seconds to compose herself, mindful of her cover in her current role. “Yes, I am English. I was born in Cheshire in the North West of the country…near Manchester.”
“I apologise. I had no intention to challenge or offend you, but you cannot possibly be from English stock.”
Petra relaxed. “My grandparents were Czechoslovakian. They fled from Prague to England shortly before the German invasion in nineteen thirty nine.”
The old woman smiled. “I knew it. As soon as I saw you, I could see that you were of Slavic origin.”
Alexis entered with a tray of tea and the conversation began to focus on his ambition to become an accountant. There was no mention of football or the club at La Bastide. Perhaps his grandmother had warned him to avoid the subject.
Petra managed to impart a potted version of her life history using a combination of fact and fiction. She described how her parents had died in the Asian tsunami, a tragedy that resulted in her living with her sister. She explained that she had originally worked with Klara in her saddlery shop, but had left to return to college in order to resume her studies in European cultural developments. She mentioned her elder brother who worked for an international company in the U.S.A. Mindful of her current circumstances; she managed to omit the unsavoury aspects of her life and any reference to her present involvement with the security services.
Alexis listened intently, allowing Petra and his grandmother to continue their discussion without interruption.
Despite the constant concern about revealing something inconsistent with her contrived story, she enjoyed meeting Alexis's grandmother. She sensed an affinity with her. The old woman gave the impression of being a fascinating individual who possibly had her own skeletons in her past life. An opportunity to discover if she had a mysterious tale to relate presented itself as she bade farewell.
His grandmother accompanied them to the door. “You must call again and we can chat some more. Alexis says that tomorrow he is working away with his company in St. Etienne. He won't be home until quite late. Perhaps you could stop by if you have some free time at the university. I don't receive many visitors. You would be most welcome, my dear. I'm always at home.”
Petra thanked her, adding that she would look forward to meeting her again. She left with Alexis, who walked her to the Clio. The rain had abated, as predicted by his grandmother.
Alexis kissed Petra gently on the cheeks. “Grand'maman certainly took a shine to you. Next weekend, perhaps?” he asked, hopefully.
“If you are playing football on Sunday, I shall definitely be there.”
“It's a date, then,” Alexis said, believing in his own interpretation of the word. He walked on air back to the apartment. Petra drove away, tingling with excitement and anticipation…not for Alexis, but for his grandmother.
8888
Overnight, the previous day's storm had faded from the Limousin in the direction of the more rugged and remote regions of the Massif Central. Petra awoke to find sunshine streaming through her bedroom window. She showered and ate a light breakfast of fresh fruit, muesli and orange juice. Welcoming the change in the weather, she decided to walk the short distance to the Hotel Mercure Royal to meet with Jean-Marie and the two Greater Manchester detectives.
Ludovic Roche became the main topic of conversation as Petra divulged what she had learned from Alexis. Jean-Marie added some additional details about Roche's friend, Michel Dumas, who visited occasionally from Marseille. He was well-known in that area because of his involvement with Olympique Marseille football club. He was reputed to be extremely wealthy, owning an expensive yacht, a magnificent villa overlooking the Mediterranean and several other properties in the port. His relationship with Roche merely emphasised his involvement with the less desirable elements in that region.
Harcourt reported on their encounter with the gendarmes at La Bastide. It appeared that the British detectives had no jurisdiction to operate in France, but after examining the copies of the false documentation, the local police judiciaire promised to act on their behalf.
It was lawful, under the circumstances, to arrest Roche on suspicion of a criminal offence, namely the falsification of legal documents. They could also hold him in custody for twenty four to forty eight hours and search his property. In the course of enforcing the law and investigating a crime, these actions were the right of the police judiciaire. If the investigation were to reveal more widespread criminal activity, other forces could be involved that may eventually include a joint operation with U.K. authorities if a connection to the deaths in the U.K. were proven.
Jean-Marie offered to contact them as soon as he could confirm that Roche was in custody. He suggested that they took time out to explore Limoges whilst they had the opportunity. Dependant upon the outcome of the suspect's interrogation, he explained that they had two options. They could return to England if no charges could be brought against Roche or they could continue their stay if further investigations required their presence.
The ex-gendarme excused himself, leaving Petra in the company of Massey and Harcourt. She was hardly comfortable with the situation, given Massey's antagonism towards her.
Harcourt came to her rescue. “This rich friend of Roche, the one with the yacht, what did Jean-Marie say he was called?”
“Dumas,” Petra replied. “Michel Dumas. The name rang a bell from having read The Count of Monte Cristo at school.”
“This yacht of his at Marseille,” Harcourt asked, “he said that it was named after a football club?”
“Etoile Olympique after Olympique Marseille, according to him,” said Massey, impatiently. “What point are you trying to make?”
“I was just thinking,” Harcourt replied. “As we have time to spare, how do you fancy a trip to Marseille? Maybe we could check him out.”
Massey groaned, anticipating further confrontation with Harcourt.
“Count me out.” Petra wished to make it clear that she did not intend to become involved, especially with Massey. She imagined that she could work with Harcourt. She preferred her style, despite her having the semblance of a control freak. Just what Massey needs, she thought. She excused herself. “I'll concentrate on my contact here.”
“It's not just around the corner,” Massey said, unconvinced about the value of visiting Marseille. “It must be at least four hundred miles.”
“It'll be like a sightseeing trip,” Harcourt said, weighing up other advantages. “We may even find the sun.”
“It would be quicker to fly,” suggested Massey, fearing the inevitable consequences of his partner's predilections.
Harcourt had already decided. “I prefer to drive. Anyway, we'll need a car down there. We could be back by Friday or before if we leave today.”
Massey sighed. He was losing the argument. “If we find the guy, what then? If we ask him about the case, he'll simply deny any knowledge or any involvement. We have no evidence, so what's the point?”
“Our arrival on the scene may just rattle his cage,” his colleague countered. “You never know what effect it could have. It may be worth contacting Jean-Marie to see if they could tap Roche's phone. If he calls him following our visit, we'll know that they're both involved.”
That's logical, thought Petra. She had remained silent throughout their exchanges. It amused her to see a woman pressurising Massey for a change. She decided to support Harcourt, hoping that she would force him to relent. At least the prospect of a trip south could remove him from her area of investigation. She had wasted too much time in the past looking over her shoulder.
“I've been studying maps of Limoges and France since I arrived,” Petra said. “I think you can use the motorway from here towards Toulouse. I reckon that your suggestion is a great idea. At least you'll be doing something positive whilst the police are investigating Roche. If they are going to search his property in addition to interrogating him, you're talking a minimum of two or three days.” She glared at Massey. “I know…from my own experience.”
Massey scowled at her. His constant hostility was obvious. How he wished that the security service had sent someone else.
“Well, that's settled then.” Harcourt rose from her chair. She turned to Massey. “Come on, let's make a start. Grab an overnight bag and don't forget your toothbrush.”
Still scowling, Massey followed her towards the lift. Petra smiled as they disappeared to their rooms. Thirty love, she thought. By the end of the week, it should be game, set and match.
8888
Massey and Harcourt had left for Marseille. Until he had some news, Jean-Marie resumed his status of semi-retirement, leaving a text message for Petra to call if she needed him. Petra had other things on her mind…the intriguing grandmother of Alexis. As he was working away, she decided to take up the offer to visit her. Perhaps she could throw some light on what was going on. She appeared to be extremely perceptive.
They sat in the same chairs as on their first encounter. Alexis's grandmother served her a portion of brioche, sweet cake-like bread, and poured out the tea into her finest porcelain teacups. Petra stared at the cup and saucer. She was astounded, not by its quality but by its design.
Several years previously, the old woman's son, Alexis's father, had given the tea service as a present for her birthday. It rarely saw the light of day. Today was special. The china service was Le Papillon collection from La Maison de la Porcelaine at Aix sur Vienne, a town located south of Limoges. Each piece of Porcelaine du Lys Royal was decorated with sprigs of green oak leaves and mauve butterflies on a white base.
Petra shuddered. Her mind recollected Rob's choice for her new name, Louise Charrière. He had based it on the character of Louis Degas in the book, Papillon, and its creator, Henri Charrière. There was also the fortune-teller at the May fair who had compared her to an exotic butterfly. Was this merely coincidence or was Alexis's grandmother some mystic who could delve into her soul?
She wondered why she was there. Here I am, she thought, sitting in South West France, mesmerised by an old woman who served tea in cups adorned with butterflies. Why am I doing this? As the encounter progressed, Petra would become even more astounded by the dramatic story that was about to unfold.
“You are not here by chance, Louise. It is written in the stars. Fate has decreed that we should meet.”
She really is reading my mind, thought Petra.
The old woman settled herself comfortably in the chair. “I have an extraordinary story to tell, a secret that I have locked away in my heart for almost a century. I once thought about revealing it when Stalin died and again, following the collapse of the Berlin Wall in 1989, but something held me back. I'm of Russian lineage, you see, and some divine power chose me to be the guardian of a remarkable secret. When you arrived here with Alexis, I knew that now is the time.”
Petra stiffened, unable to sip her tea or eat her slice of cake. Was Alexis's grandmother rambling or about to reveal something of grave importance? She looked into the old woman's eyes. They sparkled with a far-away look, as though she could see something magical in the distance, some vivid image from the past. In reality, she was staring across the room at the rows of books filling each shelf of the bookcase.
“History, Louise.” The old woman lifted her silver-topped cane and pointed. “Those volumes contain reams of history, some accurate, some anecdotal, some based on assumptions or odd recollections from a specific period. They relate a never-ending chronicle of momentous and occasionally insignificant events. Yet, some episodes in the lives of our forebears are never recorded, never divulged, forever lost in the mists of time.”
She leaned forwards, took a sip of her tea and turned to face Petra. “What do you know about the number eight, my dear?”
What a strange question, thought Petra. Maybe she is just rambling, after all. She also sipped her tea, mostly to gain thinking time. “Don't the Chinese believe that it's a lucky number?” she replied, tentatively. Thank goodness for the HSBC advert on television, she thought.
“Absolutely,” said Alexis's grandmother. “In many Chinese dialects, it represents prosperity. However, it is a mystical number in many ways. It has a powerful influence in several religions and it is an important number in mathematical areas. You only have to look at it to realise that even visually, it is the strongest and most intriguing number that we use.”
Her ramblings engrossed Petra, who wondered where her remarks would lead.
The old woman continued. “Throughout my life, Louise, the number eight has already figured in many personal events, yet its influence is growing stronger. It even commenced its involvement before I was born. The number eight has finally reached the point in its impact on my family's life where I am ready to reveal my secret. First, however, a history lesson. Would you like more tea?”
“Yes, please. Thank you.” Petra watched her pour the tea whilst reflecting that history was hardly her favourite subject at school. “Why are you telling me this?” she asked. “I'm a complete stranger.”
“Not to me. A divine power has sent you here. I could see it in your face, the first moment when you walked through that door. You have experienced not only the tragedy of losing your parents, but also witnessed horrors and deaths in your own short life, just as they did all those years ago.”
Who are ‘they’, thought Petra, and what does she know about the dreadful events of the past few years? I mentioned about the tragedy of losing my parents in the tsunami, but how could she have known about the horrific attack that I experienced and the murders that took place?
The old woman continued. “You survived your tragic events. You are here because you have an inner strength. You are here for a purpose. The eights have come together and the time is fast approaching to shock the world.”
Petra swallowed hard. She's rambling again. She's definitely rambling.
Despite Petra's impression of her, the octogenarian remained quite calm and lucid as she spoke. “Unfortunately, I may not be here to experience the impact of the moment of truth. It is why you must be prepared to accept the responsibility…a duty entrusted to me throughout my life. What I am about to relate will not be your cross to bear. In the scheme of things, it will make you the most sought-after person in the world. It will be your story to tell.”
Petra shuddered. The words ‘one day, you will be famous’, uttered by the fortune-teller at the May fair in Knutsford resounded in her head. Sitting there in the apartment as Louise Charrière, she suddenly realised that Petra Rebovka could never become a figment of her past life.
The old woman relaxed into the comfort of the leather chair. “Let me start by giving you some family history. Alexis has dual nationality. He was born in the U.S.A. to a Russian father and a French mother. He has American and French passports. He speaks English and French and a little Russian. His mother died at the turn of this century. His father, my son Nickolas, died a few years later. Alexis's grandfather, my late husband, Alexei, died in the nineteen sixties. His great-grandmother along with her three sisters, her brother and her mother and father, Alexis's great-great-grandparents, all died at the same time together. All of them were shot…several times.”
She became silent and sipped more tea, whilst watching the expression on Petra's face.
Petra experienced some discomfort by the silence and felt obliged to say something. “Was that because of a war or something?”
The old woman replaced her cup on its saucer. “Before I was born, my dear, Russia was in turmoil. The whole nation became involved in the First World War. It went badly for the Russian people. Casualties were horrendously high…supplies were non-existent. Mutinies, strikes, riots and rebellions brought the country to the verge of total collapse. In 1915, the Tsar, Nicholas II, took on the role of commander-in-chief of the Russian armies. He allowed his wife, Empress Alexandra, to run the Duma, the government, whilst he directed the war offensive from Stavka headquarters at the front. Alexandra believed in autocracy not constitutional governance and persuaded Nicholas that the Duma should be dismissed, resulting in a ministerial revolt.”
This must be the history lesson, thought Petra, trying her utmost to look interested.
She continued. “Political unrest persisted throughout the war years, causing the Tsar to abdicate in March 1917 following the February revolution in St. Petersburg. At that time, they renamed it Petrograd in response to rampant Germanophobia and the war. The Tsar, despite his contempt for his brother, Grand Duke Mikhail, named him to be the next Emperor of All the Russias, but there were constitutional problems and a Provisional Government was set in place.”
She lowered her voice because, in her mind, she was about to impart something of a scandalous nature. “You see, Grand Duke Mikhail, though liked enormously for his prowess in almost every aspect of life and academia, had a succession of romantic affairs that were incongruous with the fundamental laws of succession to the Russian throne. He had also fallen in love with Nathalie Sheremetevskaya, otherwise known as Nathalie Mamontov and Natasha Wulfert. She was not once, but twice divorced. The Grand Duke's affair with her, therefore, caused monumental problems, even more so when she became pregnant and produced a son, George. They also married secretly in Vienna, breaking an honourable promise to his brother, Nicholas.”
The old woman raised her voice once more. “Following the abdication of the Tsar, the Romanov family, that is the Tsar, his wife and all their children were placed under house arrest in the Alexander Palace at a place called Tsarskoye Selo, not far from St. Petersburg. In August 1917, the Provisional Government evacuated the family to the Governor's Mansion in Tobolsk in the Urals. They remained there until their transfer to the house of a rich merchant, Nikolai Ipatiev, at Ekaterinburg in the following April, where they were imprisoned. The communists renamed it, ‘The House of Special Purpose’. In July 1918 the whole family and some of their attendants were executed.”
“Oh, my God…how awful,” Petra said, not fully grasping the impact of what she had just heard.
“They were all shot several times. Remember what I said about Alexis's great-great-grandparents?”
“Wow! Oh, my!” Petra almost dropped her porcelain teacup. “They were the Romanov family. But you said that the whole family was assassinated.”
The old woman leaned forwards. “Would you like some more tea or would you prefer something stronger?”
Her arm reached over the side of her chair and produced a bottle of vodka. “I enjoy the odd tipple now and again,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.
Without waiting for a reply, she poured a generous tot of Absolut into each of their cups. “Good health,” she said, gulping it back in one. “Alexis bought this from the local supermarket. Compared to the vodka I used to drink in Russia, it's rubbish. What can you expect in France? It's a country of winos.”
Petra managed to drain her cup with two swallows. She gasped slightly as the liquid hit the back of her throat. Replacing her cup on the table, she wondered what would be next. Alexis's grandmother seemed to be full of surprises. Petra suppressed a giggle and sank back into her chair. The spirit had gone straight to her head.
The old woman smiled. “What I have told you so far, you can find in most books on Russian history. What I am about to tell you is known only to me.” She grasped the vodka bottle again. “Another?”
“No, thank you. I think that I need to keep a clear head, but don't let me stop you.”
“When I was young,” said the old woman, “I could manage a whole bottle, no problem, but now that I am older I have to drink in moderation or I fall asleep.” She smiled again. “One more tot won't go amiss and today is rather special.” She poured another generous helping and relaxed once more into her chair. “Now I am ready to tell my story.”
8888
Massey drove the first leg of the journey down the A20 motorway, known as L'Occitane, to just beyond Brive-la-Gaillarde. Before setting off, Harcourt had checked the maps and decided against using the motorway to Toulouse. The weather was perfect. She preferred the scenic route across the mountains. They left the motorway at junction fifty-six to cut across a spectacular landscape towards Rodez. Their journey continued along twisting roads through the mountains and valleys before joining the A75 motorway, La Méridienne.
This took them over the Viaduc de Millau, a cable-stayed bridge spanning the river Tarn in the southern region of the Massif Central. Opened in 2004 by President Chirac, it is the tallest road bridge in the world, rising to almost 350 metres in height. Its construction has opened up the motorway route connecting Paris to Montpellier and the Languedoc Region.
The iconic bridge was also about to connect the two detectives to a melting pot of intrigue and personal danger. The comfort zone of Limousin would be a far cry from the hotbed of Marseille. Harcourt reckoned that the trip was worthwhile, if only to marvel at such a spectacular feat of modern engineering. Massey was unconvinced.
They stopped for a sandwich and coffee at the Aire du Larzac service area, a short distance beyond the bridge. Having reinvigorated themselves in the rarefied atmosphere at over 800 metres above sea level, they continued through the mountainous region, sweeping in and out of tunnels blasted deep into the rocky terrain.
Within an hour of their refreshment break, they had descended from the Rochers de la Pezade onto the coastal area of Languedoc Rousillon, stopping once again for a short break near Montpellier. The final stage of the journey took them across the Parc Naturel Régional de Camargue, famous for its black bulls, pink flamingos and wild horses. Having crossed the busy river Rhône at Arles, they arrived at their destination, Marseille, at seven in the evening. Finding suitable hotel accommodation became their immediate priority.
They found rooms at the New Hotel, a recently renovated building close to Le Vieux Port, the old port area. Themed rooms were available, a feature that Harcourt found irresistible. Before opening her holdall, she sat on her bed soaking in the tasteful ambience of the room, Mille et Une Nuits, a Thousand and One Nights.
The receptionist had allotted Massey Afrique Noire, a room themed with pictures and ornaments of African origin. The images caused him to wonder how many illegal immigrants had passed through this cosmopolitan port from that vast continent across the Mediterranean. From his open window, he could see the bustling streets and breathe in the spice-laden aromas rising from below. Compared to Greater Manchester, this was indeed an alien world.
Half an hour later, the detectives met at the bar for aperitifs before exploring the nearby port area for a restaurant. They were spoiled for choice, discovering that the whole waterfront was a gourmet's oasis. Harcourt led the way, inspecting each menu on display like a seasoned connoisseur.
“First, we just have to try the Bouillabaisse,” Harcourt said, reading from the menu in their chosen restaurant.
When based in London, Massey's normal diet had consisted of Indian or Chinese takeaways interspersed with microwavable ready meals. He would wash down these culinary convenience dishes with copious quantities of whisky. Little wonder that he had succumbed to a mild cardiac arrest during that period of his life. Changes in his diet had been a priority. Salads, fresh fruit, fish and pasta dishes had become the norm, despite confessing to being a roast beef and Yorkshire pudding addict.
“What is it?” he asked, following her suggestion.
“It's a traditional soup made from local fish and seafood,” Harcourt replied. “Trust me, the anticipation of enhancing your taste buds by sampling some exotic new dish will revitalise your flagging energy levels.”
Massey grunted. He wished that he were back at the Beacon in Derbyshire. He looked across at Harcourt's oval face, her bright eyes, full lips and sleek hair. He could instantly understand why D.S. Newton had described his relationship with her as purely sexual. In his mind, she was socially and intellectually a bloody nightmare.
Begrudgingly, he admitted that the concoction of the classic French dish with its herbs and spices was delicious. For the main course, he opted for a steak served with salad. Harcourt chose poulet provençale, chicken in a tomato, herb and spice sauce. They shared a bottle of Fitou and took the opportunity to discuss their plans for the following morning.
Later, alone in his room, Massey decided that the best course of action in dealing with Harcourt's obsessive quest in relation to Michel Dumas was to indulge her. Helping her to achieve some success would hasten their return to the U.K. where he could melt back into his comfort zone.
His new appointment at Ashton had hardly made its mark before she had whisked him off on this meaningless crusade. His other anxiety centred on Petra Rebovka. Powers far beyond his control had destroyed his efforts at bringing her to justice. She must be laughing at him. What was she really up to in Limoges? Though determined to resolve that issue before leaving France, he would be powerless to prevent circumstances from conspiring against him.
8888
The light was fading. Storm clouds were gathering again. The old woman switched on a small table lamp by her chair. Her face shone, radiant in the golden glow, as though animated by her inner anticipation of what she was about to reveal. The rest of the room faded into the approaching gloom. The storyteller was well and truly in the spotlight.
The moment reminded Petra of her own mother's bedtime stories. When they were young children, Klara, her sister, used to sleep in the same room. Her mother would sit between their beds and read to her two daughters until they both slipped into their individual dream worlds. That previous life seemed lost in time, a throwback to another world. Dramatic revelations from a far darker past life were about to bring her fleeting nostalgia into perspective.
“I want to take you back almost one hundred years, my dear,” said Alexis's grandmother. “Tsar Nicholas II had four daughters, Grand Duchess Olga, Grand Duchess Tatiana, Grand Duchess Maria and Grand Duchess Anastasia. His wife also bore a son, Tsarevich Alexei Nikolaevich, who unfortunately suffered dreadfully from haemophilia and was constantly ill. However, the family conspired to keep his condition secret from the ordinary Russian people.”
“Why?” Petra asked. “Surely, they would have been sympathetic.”
“They would never have accepted an ailing heir to the Russian throne. The populace had perceived the Tsar as a deity. They would never have tolerated a ruler who was constantly ill…it was unthinkable. The Tsar's wife, Alexandra, engaged the services of a strange individual, a Siberian mystic, a charlatan with powers of healing. His name was Grigori Rasputin. Reputedly, Rasputin once brought the young Tsarevich back from the brink of death by using his mystical powers. Rumours also spread that the empress and her daughters were his mistresses. In St. Petersburg, he was a drunkard and a womaniser, a threat to the Romanov dynasty. Another visitor at that time was the Tsar's cousin, Grand Duke Dimitri Pavlovich. He, together with Prince Felix Yusopov, murdered Rasputin in 1916 in a bid to eradicate the damage that Alexandra's relationship with the mystic was causing the monarchy.”
She paused to sip more vodka. The slight delay added a touch of drama to her story. She had survived from an era before television and other forms of entertainment, an age when storytelling was an art form. She was an expert in creating suspense.
“The following year, when the Tsar abdicated and the family was under house arrest at Tsarskoye Selo, they discovered that their daughter, Grand Duchess Tatiana, reputably an arrogant girl, was pregnant. They also kept that secret within the family. Whether the pregnancy was due to a liaison with the Tsar's cousin or the result of a favour to Rasputin in return for services rendered to their sick son, we shall never know.”
Petra was engrossed. “How fascinating…a dysfunctional Royal Family. In comparison, my dramatic life has a semblance of normality.”
The old woman continued her narrative, a grave expression on her face. “Tatiana gave birth to a son in August 1917, shortly before the family was transferred to Tobolsk. The family doctor, Yevgeny Botkin, who stayed with them throughout their ordeal, delivered the baby. Immediately the child was born, one of the local maidservants smuggled it from the palace in a laundry basket. Her mother, a peasant woman, wet-nursed and looked after the baby.”
The unfolding drama of the story was almost claustrophobic. Petra was enthralled. “Why did Tatiana let the baby go?”
“She had no choice in the matter. Her parents made the decision. The child was both illegitimate and an inconvenience to their situation. Ironically, the actions of the Tsar and his wife saved the child's life.”
She sipped more vodka and continued. “My mother was this woman's friend and neighbour. Not long afterwards, the woman died and my mother cared for the child until it was no longer possible to afford to feed it. There was a famine situation at that time and millions were dying from starvation. She placed the child in an orphanage as a foundling child, giving it the name Alexei, out of respect for the Tsarevitch. After the war, she became a regular visitor to the orphanage to see the toddler. For some reason, she never adopted him, probably because of poverty and the fact that she was pregnant, first with my sister who died at birth and later with me. I was born eight years after the war ended.”
Petra had immersed herself in the old woman's historical narrative. “What happened to little Alexei?”
“Subsequently, he was fostered out to a family who could afford to take him in. Over the years, he occasionally visited our house until he was old enough to be drafted into the Soviet armed forces. I was young…I adored him. He was my hero. He fought in the Second World War, survived the siege of Leningrad, now renamed St. Petersburg, was involved in the battle for Warsaw and marched victorious into Berlin. He was not only my hero, but a Soviet hero.”
As her story unfolded, it became obvious that her life had been devoted to keeping the illusion alive. Her passion consumed her as she recollected the events. Petra realised that living, breathing history was in touching distance…in a nearby armchair.
Further revelations were forthcoming. “I was a young nurse during the war and, though sometimes my mother received a letter from him, I lost touch. As the war ended, I was working in a field hospital near Berlin. Purely by chance, we met when he visited a comrade there. We resumed our friendship during which time my mother died, leaving me with no family. I had lost all those dear to me in the conflict. Of course, he had no known relatives either.
“We realised that the Soviets wished to destroy and subjugate Germany in retribution for their savagery on Russian soil. The Allies’ aim was to rebuild the country. These opposing ideologies were about to create a divided nation. We had sacrificed everything for freedom. Consequently, we fled to the West with some refugees because of the ensuing partition. We were virtually homeless and stateless. First, we travelled to France, then to Italy and finally, we managed to procure a passage on a ship bound for the United States of America where we were married.”
“What an amazing story. But how did you finish up here in France?”
“In 1980 our only son, Nickolas, met and married a French girl whilst still in the States. Sadly, my husband had died fifteen years earlier and Nickolas cared for me. When he married Francine, he was adamant that I should continue to live with them. He had an extension built onto the house where I could live separately. This arrangement enabled me to be comfortable and independent but close by. Eight years after they married, they too bore a son, Alexis, my grandson. Eventually, the company where Nickolas worked transferred him to France and I accompanied them. They insisted, though I was not too keen.”
Petra was thoughtful for a moment as she attempted to digest everything that she had heard. Suddenly, she grasped the point of the fascinating story. “Am I correct in believing that Alexis is a descendant of the Tsar's family?” She barely believed what she was asking.
The old woman replied with intense pride. “Great-great grandson of Tsar Nicholas II, Emperor and Autocrat of All the Russias.”
“But why doesn't Alexis talk about it?”
“He does not know. I am the only person in possession of the greatest secret of the last century.” She drained her cup of vodka.
Petra was confused. “Why have you chosen to divulge it to me?”
“I asked you earlier about the number eight, yes?”
Petra nodded, still having difficulty in absorbing what she was hearing.
The old woman reached for the vodka bottle again. She poured some into her cup and passed the bottle to Petra. “I suggest that we have another tipple. You have heard the story, the main historical facts. Now I am about to add the mystical numbers that add credibility to those facts, numbers that now demand that the truth be revealed to the world.”
Without thinking, a mesmerised Petra poured more vodka into her cup. Her mind was in turmoil.
The old woman leaned forward towards her and whispered. “The number eight is a mystical number.” She moistened her lips with her tongue after imbibing a mouthful of vodka. A bulky leather handbag lay at her feet. She reached down and withdrew a sheet of paper on which she had written a list of dates and corresponding events.
“This is for you, my dear. I prepared it especially. You must destroy it after I have explained its relevance.” She passed the sheet to Petra and snapped shut the bag.
“You will see that Tsar Nicholas II was born on 18th May 1868. Note all those eights. He became engaged to Alix of Hess on 8th April 1894. His coronation took place on 26th May 1894, aged 26. In the date and his age, the twos and the sixes add to eight. They were married on 26th November 1894…two and six again.
“Grigori Rasputin was murdered on 16th December 1916…two eights in the sixteenth day and look at the year. We have nine minus one and sixteen again…three more eights in total. Nicholas abdicated on 15th March 1917…two eights in the year again.
“Tatiana gave birth on 8th August 1917…the eighth of the eighth month and once more the eights in the year. The family's execution took place during the early hours of 17th July 1918…more eights. In 1998, eighty years after their deaths, skeletal remains, discovered beneath a remote woodland track in the Koptyaki forest near Ekaterinburg, were formally identified as those of the Romanov family, excluding a daughter and Alexei. On 17th July 1998, they were interred at St. Peter and Paul Cathedral in St. Petersburg, eighty years to the day after their assassination. Bone fragments of the missing children were finally discovered in the year 2008. If we include Tatiana's baby, there were eight members of the immediate family, the Tsar, his wife, four daughters, one son and one grandson.”
She sipped more vodka before continuing. “I was born strangely enough in August 1926. I married Alexei on 28th August 1948. The number eight now starts to become even more dominant. As I said previously, Alexei was born on 8th August 1917. He died on 8th August 1965, aged 48.”
“He died on his birthday?” Petra asked, almost mesmerised.
“There is more. Our son, Nickolas, was born on 28th August 1953, married Francine on 28 December 1980 when she was 18 years old. She died in year 2000, aged 38. Nickolas also died on his birthday, 28th August 2006, two years ago, aged 53…yet another eight. Their son, your new friend Alexis, was born on 8th August 1988, the eighth day of the eighth month in the eighty-eighth year of the last century. Eight after eight after eight, culminating in a full house of the mystic number!” The pitch of her voice had risen. She was now breathless.
She took another sip of vodka. “At that point, when all the eights came together, I knew that, not only was Alexis the special one, but that the time had come. I want the world to know that he is the one surviving true Romanov, the sole legitimate direct descendant of the last Tsar of All the Russias. I want it to be announced on 17th July 2018, exactly one hundred years after the Bolsheviks thought that they had erased the Romanov dynasty forever.”
Her recollections astounded Petra. “How do you remember all those dates?”
The old woman sipped even more vodka. “You must know the dates of your parents’ birthdays and in their cases, the dates when they died. Similarly, your memory will register dates involving your brother, your sister and other members of your immediate family. I am no different, apart from the fact that the best part of a century is etched in my head. In nine years when it is the time, I will be ninety-one years old, God willing. However, I may be too frail…I may not be even here to witness that event. My final days grow closer like the approach of the dark winter months.
“Last year, the Tsar and his family, having been identified, interred and rehabilitated by the Russian Supreme Court, finally ceased to be news. I am determined to resurrect my story to complete the final historical chapter, not to wallow in nostalgia, but to inspire future generations. It is my resolve, therefore, that you shall present my grandson, Alexis, to the world.”
Petra protested. “Why me?”
“When you entered this room, Louise, I knew instantly that you were the one.” The old woman smiled. “Tell me truthfully, my dear, what is your real name? Louise is not a Slavic name.”
Her question stunned Petra. How could she lie after all she had told her? “My name is Petra,” she said, allowing her long hair to hide her embarrassment.
“Ah, such a bold name…and your surname?”
“I am Petra Victoria Rebovka.”
“Perfect. I could not believe that your name was Louise Charrière…such a disgusting name for such a distinguished young lady…and so French!” She spat to one side as if to cleanse her lips of those words.
Petra suddenly realised what she had done. The awesome revelations and mystical fantasies of the old woman's tale had pierced her defences. “Please don't mention my name to Alexis or to anyone else,” she said. “There is a special reason for the name change.”
“That is your business, my child,” said the old woman. “I will not pry. Your secret is safe with me, just as I trust that my secret is safe with you. Neither of us will speak about this again. Our lips will remain sealed until the moment of truth is at hand.”
“But I may not be here in nine years time.”
“Oh, you will be here, Petra. You will be here. It is your destiny to be here.”
Once again, Petra's mind recalled the words of her fortune-teller: ‘You have the power to shape your destiny’. Confused and mentally exhausted by this present experience, she tried to compose herself. How could she refuse to carry out the old woman's wishes?
Alexis's grandmother had closed her eyes, completely relaxed in her chair. Did her consumption of vodka or the exhaustion from her ordeal cause her current state? Petra was unconcerned. It was time to leave. She kissed the old woman on the cheek and whispered her farewell.
Alexis's grandmother gripped Petra's hand tightly, opened her eyes and said, “You can call me Katherine now. I will still call you Louise, but it will always be Petra when we are alone.”
Petra left the apartment, fully convinced that, whatever her misgivings, the Romanov business would not disappear. There would be no closure to her scepticism, at least not until the year 2018.