THE POLICE STATION WAS NOT dissimilar to an English police station on the outside, a fairly nondescript building with a number of marked police cars parked in front. With few other sources of information available to her, Eva had decided that her next stop should be the police report on Jackson’s death. Valerie, not the family, had identified Jackson’s body after his death and thanks to the physical distance and the grief, Eva and her father had challenged very little. Maybe, just maybe, the report might reveal something that would give some foundation to what she thought might have happened – possibly even provide a new lead.
Steeling herself for a conversation in French, Eva clutched at the soft leather of her bag, feeling for the shape of the dictionary inside. She hauled Jackson’s enormous holdall up onto her shoulders once again and pressed forward. It was late afternoon in Paris now and the rain had cleared, allowing the sun to cast pink and orange rays across the clear blue expanse of sky with the last of its light. Once inside the police station, Eva had trouble getting anyone’s attention. There was no desk sergeant but instead the entrance door seemed to open onto a series of unmarked corridors. Eventually, she came across a reception area, or at least a room with chairs. There was a slightly open door to one side, behind which a heated argument was taking place in fast-paced French. Eva dropped the huge bag and took a seat on one of the old fabric-covered chairs. She sat and watched a spider attempting to bind a pot plant in its silvery web.
After several minutes, an elderly man in a highly starched uniform flew out of the open door at an unfeasibly fast pace and marched past Eva without a second glance. The door slammed behind him. Eva looked at the floor and tried not to anticipate the painful situation that was bound to ensue if she was going to be forced, as appeared to be the case, to knock on the door and explain herself in French. Taking a deep breath, she stood up, smoothed a non-existent set of creases out of her already skin-tight jeans and walked slowly towards the door, leaving the bag by the chair in reception. She knocked gingerly at the dark wood.
‘OUI!’ roared the occupant.
Eva considered coming back later.
‘OUI??’ The door flew open and she found herself facing a large man with a red face and a huge moustache, who was looking at her as if he would like to run her through with the knife he held in his left hand. The knife had a knob of butter attached to it.
The man grunted quietly as his face collapsed from rage to irritation and the butter-knife fell to his side.
‘Qu’est ce que vous voulez?’
‘Um, je voudrais…
‘In English if you prefer.’
He ushered Eva into the room and casually indicated a chair positioned in front of a huge mahogany desk.
Thank God, thought Eva, taking a seat and gratefully putting away the dictionary.
‘My name is Eva Scott. My brother, Jackson, died in Paris just over three months ago.’ Eva hesitated; it still felt like such an odd thing to say out loud. She waited for a reaction from the man opposite but saw only an almost imperceptible twitch in his right eye. She pressed on. ‘My family and I never saw all the documents relating to his death, my father just spoke to someone on the phone and I think there was some kind of summary report – a single page. I was hoping I would be able to see the full report into his death, just so that we can lay ghosts to rest. If you know what I mean.’
If he did know what she meant, the rotund man in the uniform opposite showed no sign of it. Nor did he show any sympathy or even any interest as he carried on slowly buttering a hard piece of baguette.
‘There is nothing for you to see.’
His response took Eva quite by surprise. She had expected that at the very least there would be some sort of procedure to follow, details to be taken, more questions asked, a file to be located.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘There is nothing for you to see,’ he repeated, tossing the buttered baguette end into his mouth and crunching loudly on it as little crumbs launched themselves through his fleshy, parted lips.
‘But there must be.’
‘Nothing.’
‘Don’t you need to check a database or something?’
‘I am sure.’
Eva felt herself getting riled. The man was not even looking at her as he spoke; he appeared to think he was addressing the coat hook on the back of his door.
‘Look, I just want to see the documents, that’s all. I’m not here to make trouble.’
Suddenly the man’s eyes moved so that they were fixed firmly on hers. ‘For what are you asking these questions? This matter has been closed.’
‘There are still unanswered questions.’
‘There are not.’
‘There are.’
‘What – exactement?’
‘My brother was not a drug addict.’
The man snorted and folded his arms across his rotund gut with a disdainful expression on his face.
‘I worked on your brother’s case, Mademoiselle Scott, and I can assure you your brother had quite a history with drug use.’
‘Yes, but that’s just it – he had a history with it, it was history.’ Jackson had spent a year before he arrived in France in a well-known rehab centre in Hampshire. He had been reluctant to tell her why but eventually had admitted addiction to an assortment of mind-numbing substances, from Class As to painkillers.
‘My brother was clean for two years before he died.’
‘How do you know that? I was aware of his family circumstances and you were rarely in Paris with him.’
‘He told me. I believed him. Besides, he didn’t behave in a way that would have led any of us to believe he was still having issues.’
‘He was an addict and that caused him to kill himself.’
‘He was not.’
‘Calm down, Mademoiselle Scott.’
His tone was utterly emotionless and completely cold. Eva realised the volume of her voice had been rising. She decided to try another approach.
‘Inspector…?’
‘Gascon. Inspecteur Gascon.’ He leaned back in his chair and rested a pair of badly groomed hands on the top of his fat stomach, his small black eyes looking at her challengingly, almost as if he were enjoying her discomfort.
‘Inspecteur Gascon. I’ve come a very long way to see you. Jackson was the only brother I had, my only sibling. I can see that now the file is closed it would not be particularly… convenient… to open it again but I would be incredibly grateful if you would allow me to deal with some of my unanswered questions. So that I can let Jackson rest in peace.’
She looked steadily at Gascon.
The fat man sighed, stretched, leaned forward and rested his arms on his desk, unaware that his left elbow was now heavily greased with pale yellow butter. He took a slow draught from a large tumbler of water on his desk and then carefully replaced it on a coaster. Eva wanted to throw it in his face.
‘Mademoiselle Scott.’ His beady black eyes rested on her, almost pinpricks beneath the fat folds of his eyelids and the dark, saggy skin pulling down his lower lid. ‘I don’t know if it is because you are just a stubborn Englishwoman or just because you do not understand. There is no reason to start hunting around for these documents, or to re-open this issue and I will… not… do… so.’
He sat back in his chair, looking haughtily content.
Eva felt utterly depressed as she slowly made her way back to her hotel after the encounter with the policeman. Another avenue firmly closed off. And still she really had nothing to go on but instinct. It was dark now and she could feel how exhausted she was. She forced herself to take steady, firm paces, properly supporting Jackson’s bag so that she didn’t damage her back, but she felt like hurling it on the floor and collapsing on top of it.
She looked up and realised she was almost back at the hotel. She needed to get some supplies as she didn’t feel like another night of dining alone. She changed direction and walked towards a supermarket several streets from her hotel. Her back was aching from carrying the bag. She tightened her stomach muscles and forced herself to stand up straight until she was in front of the supermarket, its bright strip-lighting spilling out onto the wet pavements. Inside she picked up a two-litre bottle of water, a bag of apples, a pack of madeleines and a pre-made cheese and ham baguette. On a whim she added a large bar of salted almond chocolate and a packet of menthol Vogue cigarettes to her basket. She hadn’t smoked for three years but she couldn’t think of a better time to take it up again.
The cashier was surly and threw her purchases back at her, peering out from under a greasy fringe with tiny dark eyes like a sullen pig. Eva was too tired to be annoyed and meekly packed her things into a flimsy carrier bag, hoping it would hold the weight of the water until she got back to the hotel. Then she set off again, lugging the enormous holdall. What was inside it? It wasn’t until she was two blocks away that she heard footsteps on the street behind her. They were quiet – too quiet – as if someone was trying very hard not to be heard. She tried to turn her head to look but the enormous bag on her shoulder was blocking her view. She picked up her pace and behind her the footsteps quickened too. She was walking down dark, wet, deserted roads, at least five minutes jog from the nearest busy Parisian street. She had chosen this area because it was cheap. Safety had never been a major concern – this was only supposed to be a fact-finding trip. Eva pushed energy through her muscles as she forced her body to move faster. She kept moving, driving herself forward, not daring to look behind in case she lost the advantage and found herself staring straight into the face of her pursuer. Suddenly she was one street from the hotel, one empty road to cross. The footsteps behind her quickened to a run. Eva’s senses suddenly went into overdrive and, despite everything she was carrying, she began running too. She could see the hotel right in front of her. She jumped off the pavement and, too late, noticed the car coming at speed to her left. She felt the car clip her painfully on the leg, sending her sprawling to the floor. She saw her bag of shopping and Jackson’s holdall fly through the air as she fell, landing heavily against the curb. There was a burning pain across the back of her skull and then nothing.
‘I cannot kill the English girl.’
Wiraj Hasan turned slowly from his position at the window of the grubby hotel room in the 18th arrondissement of Paris where he was leisurely smoking a cigarette. ‘You are joking of course, Nijam,’ he said slowly to his brother.
A tense silence filled the room as the two men stared at each other while their room-mates ignored them and continued to play a slow and unabsorbing game of cards. The brothers always fought, both here and at home, it was just how it was with siblings.
‘No, I am not joking.’ Nijam’s stocky frame moved swiftly over to where his brother remained by the window. He had the large, open face of a child, the body of a heavyweight boxer and the hands of a professional strangler. ‘I told you, I have found God now and I do not think this killing to order we are doing fits with His plan.’
Wiraj laughed scornfully. ‘Your God is a white man’s God. He has no time for you.’
‘He has time for everyone, Wiraj. All those who follow the path.’
‘Like sheep.’
‘We are his flock and he will guide us.’
Wiraj stared at his brother then suddenly threw his cigarette to the stained wooden floor and ground it down with his heel. ‘You have become weak, my brother,’ he growled, with such an intensity that the three men at the table glanced over.
Nijam was immediately placatory. ‘I know that we are here for good reason but, Wiraj, can’t we achieve the purpose peacefully?’ He stepped closer to his brother and laid a conciliatory hand on him. ‘After all, what kind of purpose must it be if we need to kill to achieve it?’
Immediately Wiraj cast off his brother’s arm. ‘What purpose?’ he spat. ‘You stand there and ask me what purpose?’
He pushed his brother backwards with the flat of his hand, destabilising Nijam, whose face was etched with surprise. As suddenly he remembered they were not alone, Wiraj glanced warily over at the table where the other men sat; they continued to play cards but he could see they were listening. Roughly, he grabbed Nijam’s shoulder and hustled him over to the window, before continuing in a hushed voice. ‘Their purpose is unimportant, it is for our own ends that we are forced to do this. You forget, my brother, what we have lived through,’ continued Wiraj, stroking the thick scar running down his left cheek. ‘The poverty, the violence, the sanctions imposed on our broken nation by those that should have stepped in and helped. Instead they branded us terrorists, left us at the mercy of our corrupt government. These super powers, these rich nations. They will only help themselves.’
‘But, Wiraj, now we have… ’
‘Now we have nothing, Nijam, only an opportunity.’
Nijam was silent now, his brother’s anger and the truth of his words hitting home with double-edged accuracy.
‘We have nothing without this opportunity,’ repeated Wiraj at length. ‘Do you want to go back to Sudan a failure? Is that what you want?’
Nijam quickly shook his head.
‘If you had morals you should have left them back home.’
He turned to Nijam and seeing the compliance on his brother’s face, Wiraj began to cool down. ‘Do you understand, my brother?’ he said, taking a step towards Nijam and cradling his left cheek with his hand. ‘Yes?’
Nijam nodded, any religious fervour roundly trounced from him.
‘Yes, Wiraj,’ he said quietly, ‘I do.’
Eva opened her eyes. Nothing. She shut her eyes and opened them again but it made no difference. The darkness was complete. She blinked into the gloom then sat up and felt around for the light on the bedside table at the hotel. Her outstretched arm knocked over a glass and it fell to the floor with a loud crash. This was not her room at the hotel. Further exploring with the palms of her hands, Eva found that she was sitting on a single bed with a coarse covering that seemed to be wedged in the corner of a room papered with uneven wallpaper. There was a wall behind her head and also to her right; the air smelled of cigarettes and aftershave.
For a second, Eva wondered whether she was dreaming. Since Jackson’s death she’d had almost no dreams but she had no idea where she was or how she had got here, which made a dream the only plausible explanation. But her left leg was aching horribly and her head was thumping. That pain was very real. As she felt herself starting to panic, she heard heavy footsteps coming closer to the vague outline of a door she could see across the room. Suddenly the door was thrown open, filling the room with light.
Eva raised her hand to shield her eyes as her pupils adjusted to the brightness. As soon as she was able to see again she dropped her arm. She squinted at the shadowed form in front of her. A man stepped fully into the room; he had broad and well-muscled shoulders that looked enormous, like a cartoon action hero. Eva tried to control her racing pulse. This was not a good situation. The man flicked on a bare light bulb above the bed and stared at her for several seconds. She stared back, counting each breath in and out for three to make sure they remained even and calm.
‘My name is Leon,’ said the man in English with a French accent, walking over towards her and holding out his hand. He had dark hair and dark eyes and he wore a pair of black jeans and a navy cargo sweater. Eva nodded at him. Was she supposed to shake his hand?
‘You’re probably wondering where you are.’
‘Yes.’
Eva realised her throat was painfully dry.
‘You had a car accident – well, you ran out in front of my car – and you passed out.’
Suddenly Eva remembered running across the road away from the stranger she had thought was following her. She recalled the pain of being clipped by the car – that explained the leg at least.
But why was she not in hospital?
‘Why am I…’
‘I brought you here because you were injured.’
‘I see. Well… thank you.’ She made a move to get up. ‘I should go…’
‘Eva…’
She stopped and stared straight at him. The hairs began to stand up on the back of her neck.
‘You know my name.’
He nodded. A silence descended on the room. The man looked at the floor. Eva tried to force herself to move but she seemed to be paralysed from the neck down.
‘I knew your brother,’ he said suddenly. ‘Jackson.’
Eva felt her blood drain southwards.
‘You knew Jackson?’
‘Yes.’
‘How well did you know him?’
‘We were close.’
Eva had never heard Jackson mention someone called Leon.
‘I can see you don’t believe me.’
She said nothing in response. She was starting to feel very uncomfortable. What this man had done – bringing her to his flat – was not a normal thing to do. In fact, it was almost kidnapping.
‘Wait… let me show you something…’ Leon started for the door.
Instantly, Eva was on her feet. As Leon turned right out of the door, she silently followed him to the edge of the room. She looked carefully around the door-frame, just in time to see him disappear through a door at the end of the corridor. She heard the click of a key turning in a lock in the room Leon had entered. The corridor was shabby, with a dated but clean carpet and old, well-preserved light fittings. On the opposite wall there was a photo of a family standing in front of a farmhouse. Leading off the corridor were two other rooms and then to her left… bingo… a front door.
A quick appraisal of the door revealed a Chubb lock system and a manual key below that. She glanced once more towards the kitchen and then began to tiptoe across the thin carpet, her heart hammering in her ears. She flicked up the notch on the Chubb mechanism and quickly turned the key in the lower lock. Both movements were soundless. She heard a cupboard door close again at the end of the corridor and quickly she twisted the Chubb handle and smoothly pulled open the door in front of her.
Outside was an unexpectedly twee doormat with a picture of kissing bees and beyond that a dark and cavernous unfurnished hallway decorated with graffiti and, from the smell that hung in the air, urine. Eva pulled the door closed behind her and then started to run. She ran across the concrete landing and down a stairwell, taking the stairs two at a time. She had no idea where she was and no idea where she was going to go when she reached the end of the stairs, but she trusted her own instincts more than she trusted this person. She would find a road, there had to be a road somewhere, and she would flag someone down. But the stairs just kept coming.
‘Eva!’
Eva gasped out loud as she heard her name. ‘Shit,’ she muttered and tried to pick up her pace. She heard the ominous thundering of footsteps on the stairs above her and tried to remember how many flights she had put between the flat and where she was now. There had been at least four, surely he couldn’t catch her.
‘Eva, wait! You don’t understand!’ Leon’s voice echoed down the stairwell.
Suddenly Eva pulled up short – she was at the bottom of the last flight of stairs and there were no more steps. And no door. Eva stopped, her heart thumping, and then realised she had come down a flight of stairs too far and was in a utility space with no exit. She was going to have to go back up towards him to get out. Panic singing in her ears, Eva started up the stairs two at a time, holding her breath and expecting at any minute to see those dark features appear around the corner. At the next break in the stairs she looked around her and after several seconds of rising anxiety realised she was standing right next to an emergency exit door. She threw herself against it and suddenly she was outside in the bitter night air, shivering. She looked over her shoulder but there was no sign of Leon. The door slammed behind her and she looked back again and took in the enormous tower block she had been inside. Then she turned, started to run and cried out as she hit what felt like a brick wall. Hard fingers gripped her, flipping her over onto her front, pushing her to the floor and a bag was whisked over her head. She tried to scream but the bag was pulled tight over her mouth as she felt someone trying to fasten her wrists together behind her back.
She struggled hard and heard swearing as she succeeded in freeing one of her wrists.
‘Merde!’
Then a huge hand grabbed both her wrists behind her back and held them together as hard plastic was wrapped around them and pulled tight. Before the plastic was fastened suddenly there was a noise like a basketball thudding against a wall, followed by the sound of splintering bone and a grunt in her ear as the weight of the person lifted from her. She lay on the ground trying to figure out what was going on as noises of a scuffle filtered through the bag. When she realised she was no longer the centre of attention, Eva tried to free her wrists from the unfastened plastic handcuffs, pulling and tugging as she felt them gradually become loose. Then a gunshot rang out. She lay face down, rigid, blindfolded, confused and disorientated.
‘Eva.’
Leon’s voice. The bag was pulled off her head and Eva looked around her. Leon was behind her, pulling the last of the plastic handcuffs off her. He threw them away and then came to stand in front of her. In his right hand was the dark shape of a gun. Eva looked past him and saw a lumpen form on the ground behind the back tyre of a burned out car.