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They arrived in Calais at 6.30 that evening for an interview at eight, parking the car on a city centre street overlooked by the square tower of the Église Notre-Dame. Phyllis was keen to eat at a restaurant, but they spent forty minutes looking in shops in the Place d’Armes, and eventually settled for two cartons of chips from a street-corner friterie. Then they sat in the square, people-watching. Mordred put his arm round her. They were supposed to be going to Capri together, after all: hardly a liberty to get some basic intimacy going. She put her head on his shoulder. “I feel like an utter tramp,” she said.
At 7.55, they walked to the Commissariat de Police on the Place de Lorraine and announced themselves at reception. Phyllis had brought ID, and a femme officier took then to an interview room on the second floor where she introduced them to their Interpol liaison. Yves Robillard was a small, thin man of about forty in a maroon jacket, grey trousers and bow tie. They exchanged names and job titles. He appraised their appearance, made a distasteful face and shook hands with them, releasing a waft of expensive perfume. “I take it you’re working undercover,” he said in French with a strong Lyon accent.
“No, we always dress like this,” Phyllis replied.
Mordred looked at her. Then at him. Mutual contempt at first sight if he’d ever seen it. He’d have to be at his diplomatic best here.
They sat down.
“I understand you’ve found Pierre Durand,” Mordred said.
“Not found him, Monsieur, no,” Robillard replied. “I thought I was clear about that in my communiqué.”
“My mistake,” Mordred replied, trying to smooth the waters. “I apologise. We came out here in a hurry. We’re anxious to get to the bottom of it, as I’m sure you understand.”
“It seems an odd detail to overlook,” the Frenchman went on. “If you imagine we have him in custody, presumably you’re expecting to take him away. I’m afraid - ”
“Monsieur Mordred is here as my assistant,” Phyllis said brusquely. “I’m afraid I haven’t familiarised him with all the details. He tends to start speaking first because he’s a man and you’re a man, and he thinks you’ll be on the same wavelength.”
Robillard looked at her as if he thought it was an insane explanation, which maybe it was.
“He’s also rather tired,” Phyllis said. “I won’t go into the details. Please tell us what you know about Pierre Durand, Monsieur Robillard. We’d like to get back to London.”
“Not that we don’t love France,” Mordred added. “And apologies for our clothes. We meant no disrespect. You’re right, we’ve been working undercover.”
“Sorry I was sarcastic,” Phyllis said. “We got off on the wrong footing earlier. Let’s begin again – please.”
Danger. Robillard didn’t know whether they were making fun of him. The thing to do now was maintain eye-contact without smiling. Luckily, Phyllis had recognised the hazard at the same time as him. Both their pairs of eyes bored into Robillard’s. Suddenly, he looked slightly afraid.
“Until three weeks ago,” he said, obviously anxious now to get it over with, “Monsieur Durand was working for a freight company called Godolphine, a subsidiary of Eurotunnel. We have no reason to think his business there was in any way connected to any of the previous activities for which the British secret service flagged him up. Officially, he worked in the clerical department, but, given his background, and our discoveries, we think he was probably engaged in industrial espionage.”
“So working against Eurotunnel?” Phyllis asked.
“Against Godolphine, Mademoiselle,” Robillard said as if it ought to be too obvious to state. “Likely he was employed by a rival freight company. Whichever it was, it wouldn’t have been looking to undermine Eurotunnel. Rather, for ways to undermine Godolphine’s relationship with it and replace them as contactors.”
“The only reason I ask,” Phyllis persisted, “is because in Britain, we were given evidence to suggest a plot to ‘demolish’ – and we’re not entirely sure what that word means in this context - the Channel tunnel.”
Robillard looked thunderstruck. He removed his hands from the table, put them on his thighs and leaned back. “That is the first I have heard of it!”
“We’ve only just found out,” Mordred said. “We thought you might as well get it from the horse’s mouth.”
“And you two are the horses, yes?”
“We discounted it,” Phyllis said, “for a million reasons I can’t go into here. Apparently it’s impossible to demolish the Channel tunnel anyway. We had reasons to think it was false information intentionally designed to mislead us.”
“Mislead you about what?” Robillard asked.
“Islamic extremists,” Mordred said, before Phyllis could speak.
Robillard chuckled. He put his hand back on the table. “ISIS? With respect, Monsieur, Pierre Durand may have done some bad things, but he’s hardly a genocidal monster.”
“I only mention it to explain why my colleague raised the possibility of Durand working against Eurotunnel,” Mordred said. “She was merely thinking aloud.”
Robillard sighed. “He could have been spying on Eurotunnel. I do not want to go on record as having ruled it out as impossible. The police obtained a warrant to search the relevant premises and also interviewed senior Godolphine executives, but they came across no evidence of Islamic extremism. I will pass your concerns on, though.”
“You talked earlier of your ‘discoveries’ regarding Monsieur Durand?” Phyllis asked.
“Ah, the piece de resistance,” Robillard said, as if this was what he’d been waiting for all along, and if only they’d asked him about it to start with, instead of talking about horses and ISIS, he’d have been much more amenable. “We do know he was in regular contact with some very important people across the continent, and in Britain.”
“In what capacity?” Phyllis asked.
“Taking delivery of consignments of ‘equipment’,” Robillard said. “Some, but not all of it, bound for Britain.”
“You mean – guns?” Mordred asked.
“Not that we’ve so far been able to discover,” Robillard said. “Transporting large quantities of firearms across France and through the tunnel would be exceptionally difficult. No, we were only able to intercept one consignment of said ‘equipment’, and that only because it was somewhat late and bound specifically for Calais with no instructions to transfer it to the United Kingdom.”
“And?” Phyllis said.
“Second-hand clothes.”
Phyllis and Mordred exchanged quizzical looks.
Did you just say, ‘second-hand clothes’?” Mordred asked Robillard.
Robillard looked icily at them without speaking. Written on his face were the words: “I won’t repeat myself for a couple of imbeciles.”
“And these ... clothes were actually meant for Calais?” Mordred asked. “With no instructions to transport them elsewhere?”
Robillard nodded. But just once, and obviously as a concession to politeness. “We will, of course, inform you if there are any other developments,” he said. “I apologise if you feel you’ve had a wasted journey, but I did, after all, offer to come to England.”
There was a knock at the door. Without waiting to be invited in, the same femme officier who had conducted them here entered hurriedly carrying a piece of paper which she handed to Robillard. She didn’t wait for his reaction but exited in the same rushed manner.
Mordred saw the Interpol officer’s features change, and knew at once what it was. A dispatch from Grey. Somehow, they’d found out what was going on.
The likely course of events during the last five minutes flashed before his eyes at the speed of light. An urgent fax from Thames House had arrived downstairs. It identified Mordred and Phyllis as impostors and carried instructions to the Gendarmerie to desist from all further communication with them. The femme officier had taken it to her superior. He or she had sent the same femme officier to inform Robillard while he or she – the superior - buttonholed a couple of officers to make the arrest. Depending on how many officers were on duty at this time of night, and how quiet the city was, he and Phyllis had between ten and thirty seconds to get away. Added to which a personal visit from Grey might already be imminent: presumably they had access to that seven-seat helicopter, among other things.
He grabbed Phyllis’s arm and stood up, raising her with him, to her surprise. “Er – John?” she exclaimed.
“We’ve got to get out of here. Grey.”
“Just wait a minute, Monsieur!” Robillard said angrily.
They left the room, turned left and walked briskly along an empty corridor. From in front, they heard footsteps ascending a staircase. They turned around and went the other way. Hopeless. The only one thing to do in a situation like this was make straight for the exit and try to plough your way out by brute force.
But that wouldn’t work. One person might make it, by a miracle. Two, never.
There were stairs at this end of the corridor. They pushed through a set of double doors, but personnel were coming at them from downstairs here as well. They were surrounded. Might as well surrender. Although ...
Tariq would know what had happened. He was monitoring unusual signals sent from Grey. If that was what this was ...
“Upstairs!” Phyllis said. She grabbed his hand, and tried to pull him. He stood his ground and she almost lost her footing as her attempt to drag him failed.
“What’s the point?” he said.
“Where there’s life there’s hope! We can get onto the roof!”
“And then what?”
“Bloody hell, John, both our jobs are on the line!”
“Walk downstairs, like we’re leaving.”
“What?”
He grabbed both her arms and looked into her eyes. “Keep calm,” he said, “and trust in Tariq.”
She seemed to grasp his meaning. She closed her eyes and frowned and swallowed. They walked downstairs and into what looked like a veritable rugby team of Gendarmes, none of whom looked like they were susceptible to being ploughed through. At their head, stood a uniformed woman with short hair and a supercilious expression. The ‘superior’ in his fleeting vision of unfolding events.
“Maybe you can explain why you’re in such a hurry,” she said.
“We’re on our way home,” Mordred said calmly. “What seems to be the problem?”
She smiled. “You’re not going anywhere. Not yet, anyway. Maybe never.”
Silence. Everyone waited to see what bon mot the British couple would come up with. Mordred put on his best perplexed expression.
Suddenly, the femme officier appeared with a new piece of paper. She pushed through the French rugby scrum looking unhappy, and passed it to her superior. The superior read it with obvious fascination then made a perplexed expression every bit as impressive as Mordred’s, the difference being that hers was presumably genuine.
“I don’t understand,” she said quietly, as if to herself.
“If it’s what I think it is,” Mordred announced, with confident authority, “it’s happened before, and I can only apologise on behalf of the British secret service. I suspected the old problem might have recurred when I saw Monsieur Robillard’s expression change in our interview, and I signalled to my colleague that it might be best for us to leave. Last time it happened, a few months ago in Amsterdam, we weren’t released from the police station for a full six hours. It’s a countermand, of course, and it comes as a consequence of the layer on layer of security we have to have nowadays. My colleague and I will give you our passports and you can confirm our identities with the Direction générale de la sécurité intérieure in Paris. They have our details on file. Again, my apologies. I realise it makes us British look thoroughly amateurish, so I’m embarrassed as much as frustrated. I only hope you can improve on the six hours of the Dutch, though obviously I realise we have no right to expect anything whatsoever. For the remaining duration of our stay here, we’re completely in your hands, and we’ll try not to get in the way.”
The superior looked at him and her attitude softened. “If it’s a simple matter of a phone call to Paris, Monsieur, I think we can improve on six hours. Meanwhile, perhaps you’d like tea.”
He smiled. “That would be wonderful. Thank you so much.”
Two hours later, they were released. Not a moment too soon. As they walked away, an English car pulled up in front of the police station and four men got out, one of whom Mordred recognised as Shafiq Effanga. He and Phyllis stepped up their pace, got into their car and drove south, since they reasoned that was the opposite direction to which their pursuers – they almost certainly had pursuers now – would expect them to go. Phyllis drove. When they were passing through Inghem, Alec called Mordred’s phone.
“Just checking you’re okay,” he said.
“Dandy, thank you.”
“I take it Tariq’s message got through. We’ve just had new information. Remember you said we should send someone to Skye to interview doctors’ receptionists. Turns out to have been a good idea. It was just as you said. Frances Holland walked into Dunvegan health centre in the north of the island, looking ‘extremely distressed’ and seeking anti-depressive medication. She left before she could be properly dealt with.”
Mordred nodded. “So we’ve got the ‘how’ of the murder. Just like Talbot claimed, she’s put in a position where the likelihood of her taking her own life increases to a significant level, and she’s given enough time for the statistical probability to work itself out.”
“Looks that way. Now we just need the why.”
“Tell Tariq I’d send him another emoticon, but this phone doesn’t do them.”
“When are you coming home?”
“We’re being chased south by Grey at the moment, and probably the French police.”
“Had sex with Phyllis yet?”
“What the hell’s that got to do with anything? Aren’t you worried about us?”
“Yes or no?”
“No. It’s not high on my list of priorities. Or hers. We’re being chased by men with guns. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“It’s what you signed up for, so count yourself lucky. Or would you rather be reading junior agents’ reports? Look, we’re doing what we can, John. We’re all sticking our necks out for you here. Let’s not get too po-faced. Keep calm and be professional.”
He nodded and sighed. It was Alec who’d trained him after all. “Understood.”
“Good man. Stay safe.”
“News?” Phyllis said, when he’d hung up.
“Frances Holland tried to get anti-depressants in Skye. She was turned away.”
They drove along in silence for five minutes into the deep countryside. The road grew narrower and the lights fewer until all they could see anywhere were their own headlights and the vague outlines of trees in the middle distance. Mordred couldn’t tell what was going on, but something about Phyllis had changed. She was ruminating urgently on something. He couldn’t tell what, but an unreadable emotion kept flashing across her face.
After a few minutes fruitlessly trying to divine her, he gave up and considered Pierre Durand.
“What are you thinking about, John?” she asked.
“Those clothes in Calais. Why would anyone like Durand need piles of clothes?”
She slowed down and pulled off the road onto what looked like a dirt track. No signposts, and still nothing to indicate life anywhere beyond their own headlights. She pulled into the side and switched them off. She turned to him. Whatever emotion she felt, it had intensified to breaking point. “We need to get some practice,” she said hoarsely.
“For what?”
“Capri.”
Suddenly, he realised what she meant. She was already taking her clothes off as she got out of the car. He joined her and they kissed and fell and clawed and made it to the long grass. She’d been in the army, so what followed had something military and heat of battle about it; he could feel her physical power beneath and around him. As always, it was nothing like what happens in films, couples becoming unthinking copulation machines: the comic always threatened to burst through and even sabotage it. A fleeting vision of Alec announcing ‘mission accomplished’, a quick pastiche of EL James and Fifty Shades – Over and over again, he tried to reverse his mile-long Winnebago into her tiny little car park - a parade of misplaced limbs, asynchronisms, lying on things that shouldn’t have been there and definitely wouldn’t have been in a movie. But it was joy as well as biology and discomfort. At least, for him. He half expected that when it was over – which it was, after about ten minutes – she’d get dressed as if it hadn’t occurred and tell him never to mention it again. That happened a lot in films too.
But she didn’t. She lay across him panting, then laughed. Then she sat up in the almost complete darkness, clasped her hands and whooped. She said hoarsely, “I can’t wait for Capri”, and fell back onto the ground, still laughing.
At that moment, he realised he was probably in love with her.
