Sally was shocked to see that the boat for tonight’s stunt was not a mini gin palace like before, or even a little fisher, but an open, orange rigid inflatable boat. It had the usual steering wheel on a centrally placed control console. Behind that there was a black leatherette motorbike-style seat for two.
This was going to be a dangerous stunt in so many ways.
Sally looked out at the sea.
There was a definite swell building.
She needed to make things go as smoothly as possible, so she talked briefly to the First Assistant, pointing out that it would be extremely unwise to enter a rigid inflatable boat wearing stiletto heels. Daniel wanted her to keep them on but, after some discussion, the First, clearly worried, relayed Sally’s concern and persuaded him. Foreseeing the boat deflating, stabbed by a stiletto, before they could complete the scene, the First took Sally aside and worked out a routine in which she could appear to try getting into the RIB in heels, lose her balance on the pebbles and, in a moment of anger, take the shoes off and fling them furiously into the carcass of the boat before she herself jumped in after them and took control of the throttle.
The scene could be very funny, especially as she was in an evening gown, sparkling at all points.
Wanting to get it right, while the camera crew were focusing the lights, Sally walked down to the water’s edge and went through the sequence a few times by herself.
It was difficult to do it properly without Eggy. She tried to put the stilettos back on. But she realised that when jumping on the stones without shoes she had laddered her tights. That would be fine later, but would look all wrong at the top of the scene when she was supposed to appear like any other guest leaving a posh party.
She jammed the shoes on and ran, or rather hobbled, at speed up the beach to the wardrobe mistress. A runner was sent up the slope to the cars to drive back to base and fetch a few pairs of fresh tights from the wardrobe wagon.
While Sally was hanging around behind the camera crew, Sophie from the wardrobe department brought a warm coat and slung it around her. Sally asked if anyone knew where Eggy had got to.
Everybodys’ shoulders hunched.
‘Nobody has a clue,’ said Sophie. ‘No reply from his phone. No call in to anyone on the crew. Wife hasn’t seen him since this morning.’
‘What if he doesn’t turn up?’ Sally shivered and hugged the coat closer. ‘Will they put off shooting this scene till tomorrow?’
‘They can’t do that,’ said the Third Assistant, pulling away from the gaggle of make-up and wardrobe girls, cradling a cup of coffee. ‘Tomorrow we have to start on the principals. Marina Martel and Steve Baxter. No possibility of rescheduling anything. It’s now or never. If he doesn’t show in the next ten minutes, we’ll have to put someone else into the scene wearing his costume.’
‘What about the lines?’
‘We’ll keep his back to camera, then post-synch. Get him in for an ADR in London or something.’
Sally knew that this would be a very sad way of finishing this job – having to do her last scene with one of the crew.
Plus she knew from experience that it was far easier to get your laughs – and this scene could be hilarious – if you were fed the cues by an actor, an expert, which Eggy assuredly was.
She walked slowly back down to the water’s edge. The RIB was being seen to by various tech guys.
‘We’re putting in some lighting, hidden by the outboard.’
‘And how will we communicate?’
‘We thought we’d tape a mobile phone to the console but it’s too noticeable.’
‘No point anyway.’ Sally looked around at the rocks either side of the bay, the craggy hill looming up behind the beach. ‘You lose signal quite early out there.’
‘Like your co-star,’ Daniel pulled his face away from the camera and laughed sarcastically. ‘Well, I’m sure it’ll work fine without any communication. You just drive out to the horizon and then you turn back.’
Sally resisted the urge to ask whether the director belonged to the Flat Earth Society. Didn’t everyone know that as you move forward so does the horizon?
Well. She’d work all that out later. Now she just wanted to get on with it. But where was Eggy?
Gasping for breath after her run up the hill, Theresa entered the Hotel Astra. She climbed up the stairs to the second floor and banged on the door of the room which she hoped would correspond with the window Neil was using to talk Shakespeare to Chloe.
Roger opened up.
He looked tired and depressed.
‘Is Chloe in here?’
Roger pulled a face of incomprehension. ‘Should she be?’
‘Where’s Neil?’
‘I don’t know.’ Roger shrugged. ‘A few minutes ago, he was locked in the bathroom, babbling to himself, then suddenly he shut up and raced out of the room like a lightning bolt.’
‘So did Chloe.’ Theresa hoped Roger knew how serious this situation was. ‘Chloe was staying down in my flat for safekeeping. They’ve obviously run off again.’
‘Oh bloody hell.’ Roger turned and grabbed a jacket. ‘We’ve got to find them. I don’t want that bloody bossy bitch of a schoolteacher on my back again.’ He paused and winced. ‘Oops. Sorry. She’s your daughter, isn’t she? Ah well. No time for manners now. Let’s go!’
Theresa followed Roger down the corridor to the stairs. Her phone buzzed. She answered, praying it would be Chloe.
‘Theresa, it’s Sally. Please could you try Phoebe Markham again. I have to get Eggy here. I’m so worried.’
Theresa was now torn. She had to get out and search for Chloe. But it would be too petty not to tell Sally that she had seen him.
‘I know where he is,’ she replied. ‘Hotel Astra.’
‘Jesus!’ cried Sally. ‘What the hell is he doing there?’
‘Look. We’ve lost Chloe again. I’ll do my best.’
Theresa hung up, but as she passed the hotel reception desk she paused to tell the clerk that there was a man trapped in a room on about the third or fourth floor.
‘Oh that’s all right,’ said the clerk. ‘We know all about that. It’s an actor rehearsing a part. The lady with him told us he was not to be disturbed.’
‘Grandma!’ Theresa spun round to find Lola grabbing at her skirts. Roger, she noticed, had also been stopped and was now in a tense conversation with a woman who looked very like his ex-wife Cynthia.
‘I think you should definitely check on him,’ Theresa explained to the desk clerk. ‘He may be acting but he doesn’t look at all well.’
‘But I . . .’
‘Just do it!’ snapped Theresa.
The clerk slithered out from behind the desk and ran up the stairs, skeleton key in hand.
‘Have you come to visit your special room, Grandma?’ asked Lola. ‘Cressy and I found it the other day when we were exploring.’
Over the child’s shoulder, Theresa could see that it was actually Cynthia, who now looked extremely elegant and self-contained. Nothing at all like the drunken woman they had visited days before.
She was standing close to Roger, but the couple were quarrelling – and the subject was their son Neil.
Theresa moved across to them.
‘We should go, Roger,’ she said. ‘They can’t have got far. I just have to take my other granddaughter back to her mother.’ Theresa took Lola by the hand. ‘Where’s Mummy, darling?’
‘Mummy’s gone out to see the ballet at Monte Carlo. We’re sitting in the bar with Frances, the magic dragon. She can make smoke come out of her nose. Come along.’ Lola tugged at Theresa’s hand, pulling her along the passageway.
‘Roger, Cynthia,’ she called back over her shoulder. ‘Please wait for me. I can’t be responsible for the loss of two grandchildren in one day. I won’t be a minute.’
Both Roger and Cynthia stood together still, stabbing at their phones, presumably trying to contact Neil.
Lola turned off the corridor and pushed Theresa through a door marked ‘Storeroom. No Entry’.
‘This isn’t the bar,’ said Theresa, pulling back.
‘No. It’s your room, Grandma.’
As Lola marched into the tiny room, Theresa remained on the threshold, not believing her eyes.
The walls were covered with photos of herself. Photos blown up to gigantic size. The photo of her on the terrace. Photos from the album. Photos of her walking along the quay, sitting on benches, having breakfast on the terrace of the brasserie this morning. A photo of her in her nightgown, staring up in the darkness.
‘Did you do this?’ Theresa didn’t know why she had asked such a stupid question. This was clearly not the work of a child. She glanced along the countertops and shelves. Boxes marked Serviettes, Plateaux and Nappes, piled high. There was a glass-fronted refrigerator.
Inside were more boxes, marked Oeufs, Bacon and Saucissons.
It was obviously the storeroom for things the hotel used for breakfasts and room service. And by the look of the refrigerator, Cyril had recently been here.
A touch on Theresa’s shoulder and she leaped into the air. But it was only Frances.
‘Lola! You little rascal. Theresa! Thank goodness for that. I thought Lola had done a runner too.’
‘How did you know?’
‘My God! A shrine!’ Frances stopped short and peered over Theresa’s shoulder. ‘What’s this all about? Is it an art installation of some kind?’
‘I have a stalker.’ Theresa lowered her voice to reply into Frances’s ear. ‘It seems that Lola has just discovered his hideout.’
‘Come along, Lola.’ Frances raised her voice and stretched out a hand behind her. ‘Let’s get back to that jigsaw, eh?’
As Frances shoved Lola along the corridor, she turned back to Theresa.
‘What did you mean when you said, “How did you know?” You haven’t lost Chloe again, have you?’
‘Between you and me, Frances, yes, I have.’ Theresa shut the door of the room which was a strange place of devotion, dedicated to herself. ‘But it was literally minutes ago that she ran out of my front door. And we all know she’s gone to Neil. His parents, Roger and Cynthia, are at reception. We’ve got to find them. Now!’
Theresa took a step away. Once more Frances touched her shoulder.
‘And who was responsible for that little reliquary inside there?’ Frances tipped her head in the direction of the storeroom. ‘Do you know?’
‘I think it’s a man called Cyril. He’s been weird to me for a few weeks now.’
‘And who is Cyril? An ex?’
‘Absolutely not.’ Theresa was appalled at the very thought. ‘He’s the local butcher.’
‘Butcher!’ Frances pulled a face of horror. ‘Good luck with that, Theresa!’
Theresa ran out to join Neil’s parents.
When she reached reception she found Edgar Markham standing there, naked but for a towel. He was yelling loudly in English to the desk clerk, telling him that he must call him a cab, pronto.
Such was the state of Edgar’s agitation the clerk could not understand a word he was saying.
Theresa hastily translated.
‘That bloody woman of yours.’ Edgar spun round to face Theresa. ‘She tied me up. Took away my clothes. Your friend. And Sally’s.’
Theresa hadn’t a notion what he was talking about.
‘Tall. Blonde. Very strong . . . as I discovered when I tried to fight her off.’ He ran his hand over his bald patch. ‘God. I’m so late on to set. This is a disaster. A disaster! And it’s my last filming day.’
‘How do you know she’s a friend of mine and Sally’s?’ asked Theresa, edging towards the front door, where Roger and Cynthia were still standing, squabbling.
‘Because she bloody drove up to that godforsaken village to pick Sally up that sodding night when we both got stranded. Or so she told me today. I was too bloody drunk to remember her. But I met her for lunch because I was labouring under the mistaken impression that she was going to be fun.’
A wardrobe girl ran down the beach and thrust hand warmers into Sally’s icy hands. ‘You’ll die of cold, darling.’
‘What a mess.’ Sally held her coat tight but in the gusting wind it made little difference. ‘Where is he?’
One of the runners was getting into Eggy’s costume and the scene would soon be ready to shoot.
Sally turned towards the sea, pulled her phone from her handbag and hastily tried Eggy’s number once more. Voicemail. After leaving another desperate message she went to turn the phone off again but it rang in her hand. She picked up.
‘Hi, Mum. I thought you’d be at work.’
‘Marianne?’ Sally stooped over the phone. ‘I am at work. What do you want?’
‘Oh, charming. Well, I was phoning to tell you there’s been a change of plan. I’m sitting in the bar of the Hotel Astra, and, well, the bloke who I’ve been after, you know, Roger . . . well, his wife’s turned up.’
‘But they’re divorced . . .’
‘What has it to do with me? Do what you want.’
‘I wondered if you had any tips. How I can keep hold of him.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Marianne. I’m at work. Go and get a copy of Barbara Cartland’s Guide to Dating or something. But don’t disturb me again.’
She hung up and slipped the phone into her prop handbag.
One of the runners, dressed in Eggy’s evening suit, sidled up to her. ‘Hi. I’m Mike. I know I’ll be dubbed, but do you want to go through the lines with me? I really have never acted before and . . .’
Jeez! This was all Sally needed. But obviously it would be better for her if she was given her cues in the correct order. So, for a minute or two, they bantered the lines back and forth.
Sally’s phone rang again. ‘Mum. Your friend Theresa was here! And some hubbub with that actor bloke you were with at the Negresco. They were naked in a room or something . . .’
‘What?’
‘Now Theresa’s gone off with Roger and his wife.’
‘I’ve got no time for this. Sorry.’ She swiped to end the call and dropped the phone back into her bag.
While the runner muttered Eggy’s lines, Sally tried to make sense of what Marianne had said. Theresa had been naked in a room with Eggy at the Hotel Astra. Marianne was obviously bonkers; either that or desperately trying anything to get her attention. Well, fine, she would phone her back later, when work was over and she was in the make-up wagon getting her slap off.
They tried to go through the lines again, but the First Assistant came running down to the water’s edge and interrupted them. ‘Sally! Urgent.’ He was holding out a phone. ‘It’s Marianne. Hotel Astra?’
Sally couldn’t believe her ears.
‘What?’
‘She needs to talk to you right now. It’s very important.’
‘For crying out loud! Honestly, I’ve had enough of today. Seriously?’ Sally took the phone. ‘Look, Marianne, why don’t you just piss off and leave me alone. You’re getting on my nerves. So just bugger off and sort out your own boring love life. I’m too busy for this puerile crap.’
When she handed the phone back she saw that the First Assistant’s expression was one of shock. His mouth had fallen open. He was almost a comedy picture of astonishment: eyebrows raised, eyes wide open and a gaping O for a mouth.
‘What?’ she asked. ‘What? Why the face?’
‘You do know who you were just talking to?’
‘My daughter Marianne, from the Hotel Astra.’
‘No, Sally. That was the producer and star, Marina. Marina Martel calling from the Hotel Astor.’
Sally’s intake of breath was so severe she almost lost her balance. She reached out for the mobile phone. ‘I misheard you.’ She stuck out her hand, pleading. ‘Give me that thing. Call her back. Call her again for me. I thought it was my daughter, Marianne. Stupid hotels with names so alike.’
The First Assistant was still gaping at Sally. ‘We can’t phone her. They won’t put us through. When she needs us she phones in.’
‘Oh, no.’ Sally put her face into her hands. What had she done? ‘Can this evening get any worse?’
As Roger, Cynthia and Theresa ran down the hill, Theresa shouted out, ‘Where exactly are we heading?’
‘How would I know?’ cried Cynthia Muffett. ‘I’ve only just arrived.’
‘I thought you knew, Theresa.’ Roger stopped in his tracks. ‘We can’t just run around aimlessly, like headless bloody chickens. We need a plan.’
‘Perhaps we should check my flat again, in case they’ve gone back there.’
‘Whatever . . .’ said Cynthia. ‘Honestly, Roger. I knew that stupid judge should never have let Neil choose where he wanted to live. You’re incapable.’
‘I know I am.’ Roger let out a sob. ‘I know. Really. I’m so sorry. I made such a mistake.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Everything!’
The three turned on to the quayside, scanning the street for a sight of the two teenagers.
Cynthia jammed her phone to her ear, trying Neil’s number again.
Theresa opened up and ran through the flat, searching all the rooms.
‘Have they taken any food?’ asked Cynthia, standing on the threshold. ‘Could you check?’
Theresa hastily threw open the fridge and looked. ‘No, nothing. Oh wait. They took some chocolate brownies.’
‘Typical kids,’ said Cynthia. ‘Always fantasy over reality.’
‘Oh buggeration!’ Roger was agitatedly patting his jacket pockets, checking them all in a frantic manner. ‘My keys. They’ve taken my ruddy keys.’
‘The keys to what?’ Cynthia turned to him with an ominous stare. ‘The keys to what, Roger?’
Roger threw his hands up and shouted, ‘To the bloody boat, that’s what.’
‘I can see that it would be a good place to hide and be alone,’ said Theresa. ‘Where is your boat moored?’
‘Here. In Bellevue-sur-Mer.’
‘Good. Let’s go.’ Leading them, Theresa ran along the quay towards the Gare Maritime and the tiny port de plaisance behind it.
Darkness was falling fast. The street lights flickered on.
Desperately out of breath, the three turned into the small harbour, and stood together, panting at the water’s edge.
‘Which pontoon?’ asked Theresa, looking out at about fifty boats moored in lines of white.
‘This one.’
‘What’s the boat’s name?’
Roger and Cynthia spoke at once –
Cynthia: ‘Sea Nymph 2.’
Roger: ‘The Bitch Got The House.’
There was a short pause while Cynthia took this in.
‘You changed the name of the boat? Don’t you know that it’s unlucky, Roger? You should never change a boat’s name.’
‘Superstitious rot.’
‘Fine. Could you repeat the name, please, Roger?’ Cynthia took a small step back. ‘And slightly louder this time?’
He hung his head and said quietly, ‘The Bitch Got The House.’
Cynthia turned and slapped his face.
‘Ow! That hurt.’
‘So did the new name of our boat.’
‘Mr and Mrs Muffett! Please! We need to get on to your boat. Now.’
Theresa followed Roger along the wooden pontoon.
His face wore a sudden look of horror.
‘Where?’ Panicked, he turned in each direction.
‘Where’s it gone?’
‘What do you mean, “Where’s it gone?”’ Cynthia was pulling at Roger’s jacket. ‘Roger? Roger! Please tell me you’re joking.’
‘No, Cyn.’ Roger ran both hands through his hair. ‘No, I’m not.’ He put his palms up, covering his nose and mouth. ‘Our boat’s not here.’
‘Now, Roger!’ Theresa stepped in, trying for some sense. ‘You’re certain that this is where you left it?’
‘Yes!’ Roger flung his hands out in a wide circle. ‘Of course I’m bloody certain this is where I left it.’
‘There’s no need to be rude, Rog. The poor woman is trying to help us.’
‘And find my granddaughter.’
‘Oh yes. Yes.’ Cynthia peered into the dark. ‘Do they know how to turn the lights on? You can’t go floating out on a boat at night with no lights . . .’
‘They don’t know anything.’ Roger started to weep. ‘I never let him drive. He hasn’t got a clue.’
‘Neither of them can drive a boat.’ Theresa was very frightened indeed. And worst of all, she knew that it was her fault for letting Chloe out of her sight. ‘Come on, you two. This situation has just got very serious.’
‘Does this boat with a pathetic name still have a tracking device?’ asked Cynthia.
‘I haven’t an inkling.’ Roger shook his head. ‘I never really worked anything much out except stop and go.’
‘Come on, Rog. Concentrate now.’ Cynthia stroked his elbow. ‘For God’s sake, man. It must have a tracking device. These days even a mobile phone can be tracked, let alone a million-pound boat.’
‘I have an idea.’ Theresa pulled out her phone.
There was one person of her acquaintance who would certainly know how to track a missing pleasure boat.
Sally was standing at the water’s edge with Eggy’s stand-in. She was so cold she could barely feel her feet. Judy was fussing around with her hair, Sophie was photographing how the jewellery was positioned, getting her ready for a take, when the Second Assistant came bounding down the beach with the news that Eggy had not only been found, but he was a few minutes away, in a cab heading straight for the location.
Mike, the stand-in, was hurried up the beach and divested of Eggy’s costume.
One more time Sally turned away from the crew and took out her phone. She had tried every ruse she could think of to call Marina Martel and apologise, try to explain the nature of the misunderstanding. But at the Grand Hotel Astor, Monte Carlo, as at all hotels when hosting a mega-star, Marina Martel was booked in under a code name and, unless you knew that, no one on the switchboard would even admit that she was a resident, let alone put you through.
Sally moved over to the First Assistant for a further conversation on the subject, but he was adamant. Marina Martel called the set. The set did not call Marina Martel.
‘Sally?’
One of the tech guys called her down to the boat.
‘We’d like you to get in place and get the engine going. Just so we can time things.’
Sally removed her high heels, giving her feet a quick rub in the hope they might regain some feeling, and hopped into the boat. She looked at the motorcycle-style double saddle.
‘I’m in evening dress,’ she said. ‘How on earth can I get astride that?’
‘Daniel would like you to try taking her out while standing up . . . if you could.’
‘But there’s nowhere to stand,’ she replied, pointing to the console. ‘I’ll need Wardrobe to put a slit in the dress. Wouldn’t that be noticed? Where’s the camera boat?’
‘There won’t be one,’ said the cameraman. ‘We’re close in on your getting up and setting off, then we’re doing a long shot. You saw the sparks team installing some lamps to a battery hidden down at the back . . .’
‘Stern,’ said Sally automatically.
‘ . . . the stern,’ the cameraman corrected himself. ‘Well, the plan is that they’ll keep you well lit all the way out to sea, so that we can follow you precisely. Hopefully we’ll keep turning till you’re a mere spot on the horizon.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Daniel? While we’re waiting for Mr Markham, perhaps we could switch the shots?’
Daniel looked across at his assistant.
‘I think we ought to do the long shot first, whatever. This wind is picking up and I’d like to get that one in the can before it’s too late. With a rising sea like this we can work in the waves at the water’s edge, but I imagine it’ll be hard to keep the boat in focus if it’s bouncing all over the place out there.’
Sally looked out to sea. From the look of those waves the RIB would certainly be bouncing all over the place, even if she left this minute. She’d have a job keeping it upright.
‘You? Stephane, is it?’ The cameraman signalled to one of the grips. ‘You’re wearing black. As long as we make a thing later of Mr Markham removing his top hat in the first shot, when he climbs aboard, we can use you on the long shot . . .’ He pointed towards the boat. ‘In you get.’
As the chief electrician came out of the RIB, which was now brilliantly lit, tentatively Stephane climbed in.
Sally helped him get astride the pillion, while she had no option but to ride side-saddle.
‘OK, folks.’ The First Assistant signalled to the crew to prepare. ‘We’re going for a take on this.’
The clapperboard went into position.
‘Sound?’
‘Speed.’
‘Camera?’
‘Running.’
‘Scene 198. Take one.’
‘Stop!’ Eggy panted as he trotted down the sand, fastening his shirt buttons as he came towards the boat. ‘I’m here. WAIT! I’m here!’
‘And cut.’ Daniel sank back on to his shooting stick. ‘Quick as you can now. And look, while we’re here, let’s shoot Eggy getting in, with the lines, please.’ He turned to the First Assistant, then looked up at the sky, then at his watch. ‘Let’s run it all into one scene. Do the scene with Sally already in the boat. OK? Just for now. We can fiddle it in the edit. But at least we’ll have something.’
The First Assistant nodded and held up his hand for silence. ‘Start positions, everyone!’
Stephane moved away and Eggy stood a few feet back from the boat.
‘Turn on the engine, please, Sally.’
Sally fired up. She so wanted to quiz Eggy about where he had been, and what the hell Theresa had to do with it.
‘Take her out a little from the shore.’
The crew pushed the back of the boat forward, and it started bucking on the wave crests.
‘Sound?’
‘Speed.’
‘Camera?’
‘Running.’
‘Scene 198. Take two.’
‘And . . . action!’
Eggy stood poised and Sally waited for the call to start the lines, but all they could hear was the roar of the engine.
‘And cut!’
The First Assistant waded out to the boat.
‘Did you not hear us call “Action”?’
‘No!’ shouted Sally and Eggy in unison.
‘All I can hear is the motor,’ Sally explained.
‘Me too,’ said Eggy.
‘Mr Markham, maybe you could turn slightly towards me now and on Action I will give you a visual,’ shouted the First. ‘Watch for my signal.’
He made his way back to the beach.
‘Miss Doyle, you will know when to drive away because Mr Markham will be climbing on to the seat behind you.’
‘Sound?’
‘Speed.’
‘Camera?’
‘Running.’
Eggy turned to look out for the signal.
‘Scene 198. Take three.’
‘And . . . action.’ The First’s hand slashed downwards.
Eggy waded into the waves, shouting, ‘Don’t go without me, old girl!’ then clambered over the orange rubber side of the boat, and took his position behind Sally.
‘Hold tight!’ she cried. Part of the script. ‘Next stop Bank of England!’
Sally pushed the throttle and the boat took off into the bay.
‘I’m so sorry, Sally. You cannot imagine . . .’ Eggy shouted into her ear but the wind swallowed most of his words.
‘Not now, Eggy.’ Sally would have loved nothing more than to punch his lights out. But not while the cameras were turning.
As the little RIB smashed into an oncoming wave, it jolted and then crashed down into the trough behind.
‘Jesus!’ Eggy cried as he slid off the seat, then rapidly clambered back up. ‘Bloody hell! This is more than I was expecting.’
Sally gritted her teeth. ‘I did say “Hold tight.”’
Eggy flung his arms around Sally’s waist. Sally still had her prop handbag dangling from one arm. As they shot out into the deeper bay, it started really annoying her, blowing all over the place, thumping against the control console, slamming into her chest.
‘Take my bag, Eggy!’
‘What?’
‘TAKE MY HANDBAG! HANDBAG!’
‘Righto, Lady Bracknell.’ Eggy held on with one hand and slid the bag from Sally’s arm with the other. ‘It’s vibrating!’
‘Jesus!’ Sally knew what this would be. She turned back towards the shore. She hoped they were far enough out now. ‘It’s my phone. It’ll be Marina Martel. Answer it.’
‘WHAT?’
‘My phone. ANSWER IT.’
Eggy opened the bag and put the phone to his ear.
‘What? Who? Right. Hello. Well, we’re . . . Yes, I’ll tell her.’ He slipped the phone back into the bag.
‘It was your friend Theresa. Her granddaughter and the boy Neil have taken his father’s boat out on their own from Bellevue Marina and are lost at sea. How do you track it?’
‘What?’
‘As Theresa hung up she said something very odd: “The Bitch Got The House”.’
‘How do we know when they’ve said “Cut”?’ Sally looked over her shoulder to Eggy. ‘Do we just keep on driving till we reach Corsica?’
Eggy turned round, still acting his role, then faced Sally. ‘They look as though they’re still turning. No one’s waving us to stop or circle back or anything like that.’
Obviously Sally couldn’t phone Theresa to tell her, but she realised that somebody had to call the coastguard as soon as possible.
‘OK.’ She stared towards the horizon. Either side of the bay, dark, rocky crags loomed, jutting out of the water. She knew from experience that the most dangerous rocks were invisible, lurking feet, sometimes inches, beneath the surface.
Keeping right in the centre of the bay, Sally opened the throttle. ‘Let’s go!’
Their boat was now leaping wildly out of the water, slamming down hard on the ever-increasing waves.
Sally estimated from the direction of the wind and tide that tonight, in these conditions, whichever way a pleasure boat leaving Bellevue-sur-Mer was headed, it would be swept towards this bay. The wind was howling in from the west, and the swell was also surging eastwards.
Sally herself was finding it hard to keep this little RIB on a straight course, so God knows how amateurs, let alone kids with no experience at all, would fare on a sea as high as this one.
She looked down at the console. Thank goodness, it was a normal one. No one had tampered with the layout. There was a speedo, a couple of other gauges, on her right the throttle, and on her left a ship-to-shore emergency radio. The receiver with its curling wire was in its cradle. If she caught a glimpse of the lost boat she could call in. Sally remembered that the boat was very big and very white. But there was no use doing anything now, as the radio would only locate this boat, the RIB that she and Eggy were in.
She continued her drive towards the horizon.
Stupid bloody kids.
‘I don’t feel very well.’ Eggy, still gripping Sally’s waist, was now resting his head on her shoulder.
‘Head up, Eggy! Keep looking at the horizon.’ Sally pushed the throttle further forward. ‘And whatever you do, Eggy, do not be sick down my back!’
Theresa, Roger and Cynthia stood on the quayside stabbing at their phones, trying to find out how you called the French coastguard. Cynthia said she remembered reading stories where some English tourists, lost in the Mediterranean, had phoned the coastguard back in Falmouth, who then sent out emergency calls to the local forces in Italy or Greece or somewhere.
‘That’s all very well,’ said Theresa, ‘but we don’t have a number for Falmouth either.’ She shoved her phone back in her pocket. ‘Look. There’s no point standing here and getting cold. We’d be better off going back to my place and making calls on the landline. I’ve got a laptop there too.’
But Cynthia and Roger said they preferred to stay out near to the water’s edge.
Theresa decided that, as she walked home, she would call the general emergency number, 112, in the hope that someone there knew what to do. But just as she started to dial, her phone rang. She answered.
‘Is that Theresa?’ It was a very laid-back English male voice. ‘This is Mervin. The tech guy from Mrs Firbank’s school. Calling from London.’
‘I really can’t talk now, Mervin. There’s an ongoing emergency situation.’
Theresa had no idea why she was suddenly talking like Mervin.
‘I know all about it, Mrs S. That’s why I’m calling you. I just received a message from young Neil. He appears to be in distress. They motored out into the bay on his father’s boat and they turned off the engines thinking they’d stay where they were but, what with wind, tide and all that, they’re running adrift. They seem to have floated out to sea. I called Falmouth coastguard, but when I told them the boat’s name – The Bitch Got The House – they told me to stop messing them about and hung up. So I made a few more calls and found out that you need to call somebody down in the South of France called John Darmarey who’s with the Mary Team.’
‘Who?’
This time Mervin spoke the words together as one phrase.
‘John Darmarey, Mary Team.’
Theresa understood. ‘Thank you, Mervin. I shall phone them.’ She could see how, to an English tech-head, the words Gendarmerie Maritime might sound just like that.
She recalled the name was on a list of emergency numbers hanging in her kitchen on the fridge door.
‘Presumably Mr Muffett can take control of the boat . . .’ Mervin continued. ‘And all will be well.’
Theresa looked over the road at Roger Muffett, who in her opinion looked far from being in control of anything, let alone his own boat. ‘No, Mervin. He’s not on board. The kids took the boat without his permission. Thanks for the info. I’ll just tell his parents, who are frantic. Hold on.’
She ran across to the Muffetts.
‘Neil!’ Cynthia had her phone to her ear. ‘Neil! Pick up the bloody phone.’
‘I’ve got the school’s tech guy on the line.’ Theresa spoke to Roger, who was pacing around, forever wringing his hands, like a domestic Lady Macbeth in some soap opera. ‘He’s been in touch with the boat. I’m going over there to my flat.’ She pointed. ‘It’s behind that parked van. The blue door. I’m going to call the French emergency services.’
As she ran back across the road, heading home, she resumed her call to Mervin.
‘OK. Call this number again if you hear anything more. I’m going home right now to call the Gendarmerie Maritime. Bye.’
Theresa had her finger resting on the red button to cut off his call when she heard his anguished cry.
‘Wait! Wait! Don’t go, Mrs S. I’m just getting another message from Neil. He says the boat has stopped now.’
‘That’s good news. Isn’t it?’ Theresa hoped that if the boat was not moving further away, they might have the chance to catch up with it.
‘Erm, it should be good news.’ Mervin’s voice had taken on a new, sinister tone. ‘Except that Neil says it stopped because they just hit some rocks . . . And there seems to be water coming in.’
Theresa squeezed past the bumper of the little parked van, noticing that her front door was ajar and her lights were still on.
She obviously had left so quickly she couldn’t have shut up properly.
She shoved the door open, simultaneously slipping the phone into her pocket so that she would feel it vibrate if Mervin should call back. She walked briskly inside, heading straight towards the kitchen counter and the landline telephone.
Quickly consulting the magnetic list of emergency services on the fridge, she picked up the receiver.
‘Theresa?’
Theresa spun round, to see a man emerging from her bedroom.
It was Cyril, and in his right hand was a large, sharp knife.