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  ‘You ask the wrong question,’ Philippe said.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You should ask how long the gang can resist my father. You should ask how they will cope with his threats.’

  Stephanie muttered something sour.

  ‘It’s true.’ Philippe wriggled into a hollow on the couch. He seemed relaxed and composed, as if he was settling in to watch a favourite movie. ‘My father is a formidable man. He has formidable friends. He will make these men see that they’ve made a mistake.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ Trent said, ‘but he didn’t seem so formidable when they pulled him from his car. He looked terrified. He was helpless. And you have to understand, this gang may beat your father. They may deprive him of food and water. They could treat him very badly.’

  ‘Then they would be fools. They would be dead men.’

  ‘Dead men?’ Trent’s pulse quickened. He had to stop himself from leaning forwards in his chair. He was edging closer to something. Closer than he’d been so far.

  ‘That’s enough,’ Stephanie said, with venom.

  But Philippe wasn’t inclined to stop just yet.

  ‘Do you know how my father makes his money, monsieur?’

  Trent had a reasonable idea. He knew something about the legitimate sources of Jérôme’s income. And he knew something about the illegitimate sources, too.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said.

  ‘He brokers yachts,’ Stephanie cut in. ‘He imports them and he sells them. This is all.’

  ‘It’s not all. He imports many things inside these yachts, too. Hidden things. From North Africa. The Middle East.’

  ‘Liar.’

  ‘You deceive yourself. You believe what you wish to believe.’

  ‘And you talk too much.’ Alain exhaled hard and unbuttoned his shirtsleeves, yanking them up his muscular forearms. He adjusted the strap of his gun holster and eased his neck from side to side, as if freeing a kink. ‘Your terrible father,’ Alain said flatly, like he’d heard Philippe riff off the theme too many times. ‘The monster who pays for your apartment, your business, the fast car that you drive like a fool when you drink.’

  Philippe flashed his teeth. ‘You defend him? Why?’

  Alain didn’t respond.

  ‘Perhaps it’s because you’d like us to see how loyal you are? Perhaps you wish us to believe that you don’t envy him?’ Philippe winked salaciously at Stephanie. Twirled a finger in the air. ‘That you don’t covet all that he has?’ He chuckled to himself. ‘Maybe you don’t want us to start asking ourselves if one day you might decide to take it all from him?’

  Alain grunted. ‘This is your big idea? That I helped these men to kidnap your father?’

  ‘I do not say it happened. Only that it’s possible. Your job was to protect him. And yet now look where he is. And look where you are. Sitting in his home. Making decisions that could set him free. Or not.’

  Alain rocked his head back against the curtain behind him. He gazed up at the ceiling and cursed in frustration.

  ‘Easy,’ Trent said. ‘We’re getting sidetracked.’ He cocked his thumb and pointed his finger at Philippe. ‘The important thing is that you’re telling me your father can handle the situation he finds himself in?’

  Philippe pursed his lips. He hummed. Then he nodded. He seemed absolutely convinced of it.

  ‘And you’re also telling me he’s not the most law-abiding of citizens.’

  ‘My father is a crook. I do not say that he’s a gangster, but he keeps company with dangerous men. He trades with them. Obtains things for them.’

  ‘Then tell me about his enemies.’

  ‘Enemies?’ Stephanie asked, as though appalled.

  ‘If he helps some dangerous men, it stands to reason there are others he creates problems for. The underworld in Marseilles is competitive. It’s brutal. Everyone knows that. Hell, that’s why a guy like Jérôme employs a bodyguard like Alain. It’s why he lives his life behind a high steel fence. Why he has security cameras and vapour lights all around his home. So tell me who might want to abduct him. And why.’

  Stephanie blinked very fast. She seemed unaware that she was shaking her head.

  Philippe grinned inanely, as if Trent were a fool.

  Alain scowled and rubbed his palm across his close-cropped hair. His head was tilted over to one side. He met Trent’s gaze with a baleful look.

  ‘None of you?’ Trent persisted.

  Alain’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because it could help us. I’m trying to form an idea of who we might be up against here.’

  ‘But you told us an investigation could endanger M. Moreau. You said we have to negotiate. This is all.’

  ‘I’m not suggesting that the information leaves this room,’ Trent told him. ‘I’m not suggesting we try to find the gang.’

  He wasn’t suggesting it, but he was thinking it. He wanted to know almost more than he could stand.

  If Aimée were here, listening to him now, she’d be giving him one of her knowing looks, the kind where she pushed her mouth to one side and arched an eyebrow. She always delighted in reminding him that he was hopeless at leaving anything unresolved. He couldn’t walk away from a minor disagreement or a half-finished crossword puzzle. He hated any kind of logic flaw in a movie. So she’d know that this entire situation was killing him, and for a precious second, recognising that made him feel as if she were near.

  ‘No, you advise us when these men call,’ Alain told him. ‘This is all you do. You don’t ask questions about M. Moreau’s business. You don’t intrude on his life.’

  ‘I’m trying to save his life.’

  And in that moment, the weight and the absurdity of what he was saying suddenly hit Trent like he’d stepped in front of a freight train. He shook his head. Scrubbed his face with his hands. He needed a break. Needed space to think. And if the others planned to stay inside the study, then maybe this was his opportunity to take a look around the house. He wasn’t sure what he might find. But even the slimmest chance was better than nothing.

  ‘I’d like a glass of water.’ He nodded at Stephanie. ‘Maybe something to eat. Which way is your kitchen?’

  ‘No.’ Alain pushed up from the floor. He readjusted the fit of his holster and his gun. ‘You don’t go alone. I’ll show you.’

  Chapter Twelve

  The kitchen was located at the rear of the property. Alain led Trent towards it via the entrance hall and a door that was set into the wall behind the sweeping staircase and the prancing horse statuettes. It was vast and impressive. The units looked to be handmade and they were fitted with white granite countertops that were conspicuously empty aside from a gleaming toaster and a designer kettle. There was a range cooker, an American-style fridge-freezer and numerous pans hanging on racks from the ceiling. Everything looked well ordered and spotlessly clean.

  The only food Trent could see was a bowl of fruit on an island unit in the middle of the room. A stainless-steel sink was located there, along with a stylish tap fitted to an extendable hose.

  Alain crossed towards a glass-fronted cupboard, his shoes squeaking on the white marble tiles. He selected a tall drinking glass and passed it to Trent.

  Trent filled the glass from the tap. He drank greedily. Wiped his lips with the back of his hand when he was done.

  He filled the glass a second time. Drained it. Poured a third.

  ‘What about food?’ he asked, smacking his lips.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Is there anything we could maybe heat up?’

  ‘Do I look like a chef to you?’

  Alain stretched out his thickened neck, tilting his boulder-like head from side to side. He ran his finger around the back of his collar. Then he wet his hand from the tap and smeared water across his face.

  Trent motioned towards the fridge-freezer. ‘Maybe I could take a look for myself?’

  ‘Maybe you couldn’t.’

  Alain stood before him, water d
ripping from his flattened nose and dimpled chin onto his stained shirt. He looked haggard and knocked about. The water had moistened the thread of blood beneath his plaster and a diluted red streak was snaking across his cheek.

  Trent reached out and grabbed an apple from the bowl. Squeezed it in his hand. He bit into it. Chewed. The skin was waxy, the flesh ripe and sweet and juicy.

  ‘You’re still suspicious,’ Trent said, a spray of apple accompanying his words.

  ‘It’s my job to be suspicious.’

  Trent took another mouthful of apple. ‘And what else does your job involve?’

  The bodyguard didn’t respond. Water gleamed on his face. The faint bloody track was forking its way through the pitted stubble on his cheek towards the corner of his mouth.

  ‘It just occurs to me,’ Trent said, ‘that you must have some level of involvement in Jérôme’s import–export business. Helping to make sure the shipments get in safely, maybe?’

  Alain raised his arm and dried himself with the sleeve of his shirt. Trent could hear the scritch of his stubble against the cotton fabric.

  ‘Philippe exaggerates. You shouldn’t listen to him.’

  ‘Hard not to.’ Trent gestured around him with the hand holding the apple. ‘He seems like the only one who’s willing to open up to me.’

  ‘I thought you were a negotiator, not a therapist.’

  Trent tore off another chunk of apple and looked idly round the rest of the kitchen. It really was immaculate. The only sign of any crumbs or spills was a light dusting of coffee grounds near the kettle. Alain must have scattered them when he was preparing the coffee for Philippe. Otherwise, the room was as sterile as an operating theatre.

  ‘So who does the cooking here?’ he asked.

  ‘There’s a housekeeper.’

  ‘Huh. And can she be trusted not to talk about what’s going on? Or do we need to come up with an explanation for Jérôme’s absence? A sudden business trip, maybe?’

  Alain folded his arms across his chest, the Ruger riding up in his shoulder holster. He pinched his biceps with the fingers of his crossed hands. His eyes were hooded. A sign of fatigue or distrust? Maybe a combination of the two.

  ‘Not necessary,’ he said.

  ‘Why so sure?’

  ‘She’s worked for M. Moreau longer than anyone I know. She could have retired years ago but she prefers not to. She’s completely reliable.’

  ‘All staff gossip sometimes.’

  ‘She’s more like family than staff. And she has nobody to talk with. She lives here.’

  ‘Here? In the house?’

  He motioned back towards the entrance hall with a jerk of his head. ‘She has a small place behind the garage.’

  ‘Does she have a phone? She might call somebody.’

  ‘No phone.’

  ‘You’re sure.’

  He nodded. He was sure.

  ‘Doesn’t she have to go out for supplies?’ Trent asked.

  ‘We have deliveries.’

  ‘What if she needs something extra? Something unexpected?’

  ‘This never happens.’

  ‘But if it did?’

  ‘I would take her. She can’t drive.’

  ‘You’d take her? Not Jérôme’s chauffeur?’

  Alain raised an eyebrow. His face framed a question.

  ‘It’s like I told you,’ Trent said. ‘I’ve been watching Jérôme. I’ve seen the guy who usually does the driving.’

  ‘For your surveillance,’ Alain said. His voice was low. It was measured. ‘For Jérôme’s protection.’

  ‘That’s right. Tell me about him.’

  The muscles around Alain’s mouth twitched. His lip hitched up and Trent caught a glimpse of his canine tooth. ‘He doesn’t have a phone, either.’

  ‘He lives here, too?’

  ‘By the pool.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I have a room in the house.’

  ‘Seniority.’ Trent nodded. ‘Good for you. Must be cosy having Stephanie around. When Jérôme’s busy, say.’

  Alain squeezed his biceps some more. ‘I told you already. You shouldn’t listen to Philippe.’

  Trent stuffed the apple in his mouth and clenched it between his teeth. He made a show of checking his watch. It was 3.20 a.m. He wrenched another bite.

  ‘We should go and wake the chauffeur up,’ he said, chewing with his mouth open.

  ‘Why would we do that?’

  ‘To ask him what he knows.’

  ‘Knows?’

  ‘It’s Saturday morning,’ Trent said. ‘Friday night last night. Not many chauffeurs get weekends off.’

  ‘He’s ill. It’s why I was driving.’

  ‘Maybe that’s what he told you.’ Trent worked his jaw to clear some apple from his teeth. ‘But seriously, aren’t you the least bit suspicious that Jérôme’s driver happened to be off duty on the night his car was run off the road and he was abducted?’

  * * *

  It was cool and still and quiet outside. The sky was dark and distant beyond the halogen glare. Trent followed Alain around the perimeter of the house, their feet crunching along a pea-gravel pathway. The light from the security lamps was harsh and unrelenting. It pinned them against the wall. Two big men, walking one behind the other. Their shadows loomed over them like ogres.

  ‘So what’s your story?’ Trent asked. ‘What was your background before Jérôme hired you? Were you army?’

  Alain grunted. He let go of the limb of a tropical plant that he’d cleared from his path. It sprang back and slapped Trent in the face.

  ‘Police?’

  ‘No,’ Alain muttered.

  ‘Then what?’

  Alain’s shoulders slumped. ‘The truth? I was a squeegee punk.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  Squeegee punks were street kids who swarmed around traffic whenever it got snarled up at busy junctions in Marseilles. They’d wash your windscreen whether you wanted them to or not. Some people tipped them. Some didn’t. Some found that they happened to get robbed at knifepoint if they had their windows open or their doors unlocked.

  Alain marched on. He didn’t turn. Didn’t look back.

  ‘Not exactly your standard route into this kind of work,’ Trent said.

  Still Alain didn’t say anything.

  ‘How did it happen? Did you respond to an ad in the paper? Retrain in close protection skills?’

  Alain hesitated, then finally answered. ‘I pulled a gun on M. Moreau. I told him to give me his watch. It was a Rolex. Very expensive.’

  Trent whistled. ‘And did he?’

  ‘No. He offered me a job instead.’

  ‘Wait.’ Trent listened to the tread of their feet on the path. ‘He offered you a job right there and then? By the side of the road?’

  Alain nodded, his long shadow dipping and rising on the wall alongside him.

  ‘This is what he does. It’s why he’s rich. He judges people. He does it very fast. He did it to me. He saw something in me. He told me I could be useful to him. That he could teach me. And I believed him.’

  ‘You’ve worked for him ever since?’

  ‘Eleven years.’

  ‘And he’s been good to you?’

  ‘The best.’

  Trent fell silent. The cicadas were loud in the shrubs by their side. Gnats and flies and moths swirled around them, drawn by the ceaseless, blinding light and their body warmth.

  So Alain was a contented employee. Eleven years’ service. Plucked from a life on the streets. Given a fresh start. A rewarding salary and a place to stay in a luxury home, high in the hills of Provence. Invited to become a trusted member of the Moreau family.

  It was the kind of background that built fierce loyalty. And in Trent’s experience loyalty could compensate for many things. It could lead people to overlook certain character flaws. It could even, on occasion, cause them to participate in something terrible.

  Had Alain been involved, he wondered?


  And if so, then was Trent walking behind a guy who knew what had become of Aimée?

  Chapter Thirteen

  They rounded the corner of the villa and the thin gravel path opened up into a landscaped garden. It was well stocked with palms and other exotics, screened by pines and poplars and olive trees. Immediately to their left was a terraced area shaded by vines.

  An oval swimming pool dominated the centre of the space. It was lit, like everything else, by the dazzling security lights embedded in the shrubbery. But it was also illuminated by a series of submerged bulbs that tinged the water a murky green. A cloud of midges skimmed the surface. Trent could almost taste the chlorine tang.

  Behind the pool was a timber outbuilding with glass doors. It had a pitched roof with a circular window in the eaves. A blind had been pulled down behind the window.

  The hut was unlit on the inside but the blazing floodlights revealed the interior. Trent could see a modest sitting area with a wicker couch and chair arranged around a low coffee table and a television. Kitchen units were fitted along the rear. On the left was a ladder leading up to a mezzanine platform. A corner of the ground floor was boxed off beneath it. The bathroom, Trent guessed.

  Alain rapped a knuckle on the glass doors.

  No answer.

  He knocked again, then turned and looked at Trent, his skin wan in the pitiless glare of the security lights, the dried track of blood glimmering on his face like an old scar.

  ‘How long has he worked as Jérôme’s driver?’ Trent asked.

  ‘A year, maybe.’

  ‘And before that?’

  ‘He was a deckhand on a yacht that Jérôme chartered.’

  Not another street kid, then. But someone Jérôme had judged and assessed and offered a new opportunity to, just like he’d done for Alain. More loyalty. Maybe.

  Trent cupped his hands to the glass. He peered inside. There was no sign of the driver. He thumped the frame. Felt the panel shake.

  Still no response.

  ‘Heavy sleeper?’ Trent asked.

  Alain grunted and reached inside his trouser pocket. His hand emerged with his ring of keys. He began sorting through them.

  Trent went ahead and tried the door handle. It opened right away. The door swung outwards against his toes.