Tiptoeing around to the back of the house, Richard was shaking his head as he did so, trying to dislodge the image now firmly imprinted on his brain. He tried not to crunch his footsteps on the gravel or set off any more security lights, and as he reached the back door he was quietly proud of his efforts. He reached the door and looked in through the window into the large kitchen. There was an empty bottle of local white wine on the table and a few plates with crumbs from the amuse-bouche that Gennie always hand-prepared for her soirées. He could see through the kitchen to the more dimly lit corridor and beyond that the subtle, if that was the right word, red glow of the living room farther on. It looked like someone had left the door open in a photographic dark room.
He hesitated before going any farther. What he’d seen was upsetting enough, especially with the thought that the Rizzolis might still be hovering about. What checked him was also his exact whereabouts: the Thompsons’ back door. Martin’s endless, dull repetition of his “tradesman’s entrance” double entendre recalled to Richard innumerable evenings spent in their company wishing he could be anywhere else but there. Martin is a crushing bore, he thought, as he pulled his hand away from the door handle again, but one in trouble, too, he realized. He turned the handle slowly and walked softly into the kitchen, hiding to the right of the open door to the hall, listening for any movement. Satisfied that there was none, he tiptoed exaggeratedly down the hall toward the red light.
The living room door squeaked loudly as he pushed it open and he ducked back, just in case. When nothing happened he darted into the room. The view from this side of the window was no better than it had been from the outside. There, in the corner, were Martin and Gennie on the floor, sitting back to back and trussed up like Christmas turkeys. Their pale skin was goosebumped and the hair on their arms standing up as though they were being electrocuted. From where he stood he couldn’t see Martin’s face but he could see Gennie’s. Her mouth was covered in what looked like pink cling film, and her eyes were wide open, not so much in pain or shock at seeing Richard, but in slight embarrassment at her predicament.
He crept in, still wary that the Rizzolis might be around, and signaled the question to Gennie for confirmation. She shook her head as best she could and he moved quickly over to the tethered pair. Martin had a look on his face about as far away from embarrassment as possible; his eyes were wide open, too, but with what was clearly excitement. His mouth was also covered, but by a small studded black belt strapped around his face and with what looked like a red ball between his lips. Continuing the meat theme, thought a blushing Richard, Martin looked like a suckling pig.
Martin flexed and moved his jaw like he was trying to unblock his ears and moved the ball down onto his chin. Richard watched with what he knew was a look of disgust on his face, but he was beyond caring about the social niceties of the situation. Martin sighed with success at removing the ball. “Richard,” he said, looking him up and down, “what do you look like?”
Richard had always been careful to try and prepare for every eventuality. He wasn’t necessarily given to spontaneity or living life by the seat of one’s pants—it may even have contributed to the apparent terminal decline in his marriage—but literally nothing in his life had ever prepared him for this question and in these circumstances. It almost knocked him flying. He stood up, trying to compute Martin’s question in some way, and as he did so he caught a glimpse of himself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door. Dressed all in black, topped off by a too-small bobble hat and his face smeared in mud, then yes, the casual observer may indeed have just cause for cross-examination. But for the love of God, it was a bit rich for one half of a pair of plump, tied-up rubber fetishists with bulldog clips on his nipples to question someone else’s choice of evening attire. He was tempted to shove the red ball back in Martin’s mouth.
“What happened?” Richard asked after some time, ignoring the question which he knew that, with many other things this evening, would haunt him forever.
“Sorry, Richard, what did you say?”
Richard realized with a dull sense of “bloody typical” that his clay mask had hardened and his lips were no longer capable of free movement and he sounded like a bad ventriloquist. He rolled his eyes, and splayed his arms.
“Wha…ha…ened?” he emphasized. “’orry, ’ennie.” And he bent down to peel off her mouth tape.
“You’ll have to rip it off forcefully, old man,” Martin said over his shoulder, “that’s how she likes it.”
Richard looked away as he tore the tape off. Gennie squealed with delight and Richard couldn’t help tutting, or at least trying.
“Told you,” Martin said, as if he’d given functional instructions on how to change a car tire.
“We…wha…ha…ened?” Richard didn’t try to hide his impatience.
“Well, we were having a lovely evening, weren’t we, dear?”
“Lovely,” replied Gennie, puckering her lips to free them up a bit.
“We were playing charades. It was Gennie’s idea, a real corker. It was her turn, I mean the Rizzoli woman, and it was very easy, really. They’d kind of said they wanted to do it in French, so they could learn a bit of the lingo, but I mean, ‘big field’? Well, like I say, that’s just too easy. Big field? It’s not even a book or anything?”
During this explanation, Richard had been moving his lips and chin, trying to free up his ability to talk. “Grandchamps,” he said slowly and, thankfully, clearly.
Gennie went as though to try and point at her nose and at Richard, but her ropes wouldn’t allow it. “Well, exactly, Richard! It was then that I remembered that Monsieur Grandchamps had booked to stay tonight again. He came by this afternoon, didn’t he, dear?”
“Yes.” Martin nodded, the red ball moving up and down his chin like an escaped Adam’s apple. “Most odd, though. It was like he didn’t remember being here before. When we checked him in, Gennie said, ‘Don’t you remember, you were here before, dear?’ And that seemed to spook him for some reason. Poor old fellow, nobody likes to be reminded they’re getting old. Anyway, he just left.”
“But what happened with the Rizzolis?”
“Well, we were trying to explain all this, but we only got as far as him booking tonight, not that he’d run off. They got very excited, and erm, well, it’s possible we misread the situation. Before you could spank a backside, to coin a phrase, we were like this. How you see us now. And they just buggered off!”
“How long ago?” Richard asked frantically.
“I don’t know, not long. Ten minutes.”
Richard stood up, and then kneeled down again to begin untying the Thompsons’ bonds.
“Oh, don’t worry, old man,” Martin said, with at least the good grace to sound apologetic, “just pop the ball back in, and put some tape on Gennie, that’ll do us for now.”
“But…”
“Oh, don’t worry about us,” Gennie panted, “our cleaning lady comes very early. She’s used to our little ways.”
Richard did as he was told, stood up quickly and tried to imagine what Madame Tablier would do with such a scene at work first thing in the morning: carnage, in a word, carnage.
He made his way outside again and back around toward the annex, hiding in the shadows as much as he could. Once in sight of the Rizzolis’ bedroom, he slunk back into the hedge. Their light was on and he could hear crashing about. His heart raced violently; what about Valérie? She must still be up there. He ran out of the shadows and immediately a security light lit him up on the lawn and he darted back where he’d come from, breathing heavily. He bent down and something stuck into his thigh as he did so. The gun. What was it Valérie had called it? A Beretta Pico? It struck him that she was remarkably well-informed about such things before he chastised himself for not concentrating. He took the gun out of his pocket and it glinted in the glow of the security light before the lawn went dark again.
He weighed it in his hand. He’d never used a gun before; he couldn’t even remember holding one. Well, now was his opportunity, he thought and, gripping it tightly, he ran onto the lawn again. As soon as he did so, triggering the light, he lost his nerve and ran back. What the hell was he doing? Is there a safety catch? And where? Was he really going to use it? “Stop it, man!” he hissed at himself. “She needs you now, so get a bloody move on!”
The light went dark again and he raced back out a third time. The light did its job once more so he turned and went back to his hiding place and continued his conversation. “Of course, this all just might be very innocent.” He looked at the gun again. “Right, about as innocent as Jack the Ripper! Come on, man! Get a move on!” The light went out and this time Richard stood up. “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do,” he said, not bothering to whisper. He held the gun in front of him, just far enough to trigger the light, and he put one determined foot slowly forward.
“Slow down, cowboy,” whispered Valérie, putting her hand on his shoulder. “Let’s get back to the car and moisturize.”
It was just about the sexiest thing he’d ever heard.