Dead Line (4 page)

The entrance hall was silent and spacious and dimly lit. A ceiling fan rotated above Trent’s head, slicing shadows out of the sodium glare coming in through the glass on either side of the door. Ahead was a sweeping staircase, flanked by a pair of black prancing horse statuettes. The floor was laid with pristine white marble tiles.

There were multiple doors leading off from the foyer, all of them closed. Alain selected the first door on the right and guided Trent along a glazed corridor that looked out over the gravel yard and the fountain. The light coming in through the glass was as fierce as a search beam.

‘Someone buy the wrong bulbs?’ Trent asked, shielding his eyes with his hand.

Alain grunted. He grunted a lot.

‘Why so bright?’

‘M. Moreau prefers to feel secure.’

‘Must feel like a lab rat, too.’

Alain knocked on a door at the end of the corridor, then stepped inside without waiting for a response. Trent followed, finding himself inside an octagonal room where most of the walls were lined with shelves of books. The books all had green leather spines with gold detailing. They were lined up precisely, floor to ceiling, without a gap in between. Trent didn’t get the impression the volumes were taken down and opened very often. He wouldn’t have been surprised to discover that they were all fakes.

Two further doors and several full-height windows were positioned between the walls of books. Luxurious curtains had been drawn across the windows. The curtains were stitched from a rich, dense green fabric, and backed with some kind of additional lining to keep the bright exterior lights at bay. From his angle by the door, Trent could just glimpse the pearly glint from behind the curtain closest to him.

In the centre of the room was a desk. It was about the size of an average city car and fashioned from lush, highly polished cherry wood. The surface was empty apart from a red leather blotter in the exact centre, an ornate brass lamp and a business-style telephone. The office chair behind the desk was large and imposing. It was generously upholstered in cushioned black leather. And it was empty.

There was a brown leather chesterfield off to one side and two straight-backed visitor chairs positioned in front of the desk. Stephanie was perched on one of the chairs, her willowy body twisted around to face Trent. She was wearing a long, black mohair cardigan over the top of the delicate silver dress. She clutched its cuffs in her fists. It gave her the air of somebody suffering from a head cold.

‘M. Trent, thank you for coming.’ She spoke with a sense of calm reserve, as if Trent was a businessman who’d turned up for a prearranged meeting in the middle of the day. It was past midnight. ‘I’m sorry if we inconvenienced you.’

She stood and took a step towards him. She was shorter than Trent remembered and it took a moment for him to notice that she’d removed her shoes. He glanced down at her bare feet. They were petite, the nails painted a modest pink. But the skin was dry and chafed and the little toe on the right foot seemed to be pointing off at a crooked angle. Dancer’s feet. A storybook of injuries.

‘You were right to be cautious,’ he told her. ‘You can’t be too careful right now.’

She delved a hand into the pocket of her cardigan, wet her lip with her tongue, and held something out to him. His wallet.

He took it from her, his finger brushing fleetingly against her skin. She withdrew her hand sharply. Nerves, he guessed. She was bound to be jumpy.

He had to fight hard to quash the urge to flip open his wallet. There was a snapshot of Aimée in there. The surface was crinkled, the edges soft and frayed. The picture showed her sitting on a beach in a black bikini, wearing dark sunglasses and pouting to the camera. Her body was trim and tan, her wet hair coiled over one shoulder. They’d just been for a swim together. Out in the placid waters beneath the blazing sun, Trent had pulled her close and told her how much he loved her.

It should have been the happiest of mementoes. A symbol of the certain bliss that lay ahead of them. But now Trent sensed a hidden sadness behind the smile. A gloomy foreboding lurking just out of shot.

He supposed Alain and Stephanie had seen the image and he asked himself if it could be a problem. Possibly, he thought, though it was too soon to know for sure. Nothing he could do about it anyhow. He shoved the wallet into his back pocket and sealed the memory away.

‘I take it there’s been no contact yet,’ he said to Stephanie. ‘From the men who took your husband?’

She shook her head fast and lowered herself onto her chair. It was a deft, natural folding of her body. Trent was pretty sure it would take a lot of concentration for her to move without grace and precision.

‘Do you think they’ll call here?’ she asked.

‘Almost certainly. Some gangs contact an intermediary. Your lawyer, perhaps. But it’s most likely they’ll want to speak with you directly. They’ll want to exploit your emotional ties to Jérôme. They’ll make him give them the number. Unless you think he’d be more likely to have them call your mobile?’

‘No-o,’ she said, her voice hitching, then falling away. She cast a glance towards Alain. Lowered her eyes and contemplated her doll-like hands. She was picking at the skin beside her thumbnail. It was red and sore. Looked like she tore it often. ‘I don’t have one.’

Trent was silent for a moment.

‘How many telephones in the house?’

‘There is only this one,’ she said, indicating the desk phone with a tilt of her head.

Trent raised an eyebrow. A property this size usually had plenty of handsets dotted around. And in his experience, young women like Stephanie spent a lot of time on their mobiles, calling or texting friends. It had been one of the things he and Aimée had sometimes argued about.

‘Why here?’ he asked.

‘This is my husband’s study.’

‘But what if somebody calls for you?’

She glanced towards Alain again. Lowered her face once more, hiding behind her curtain of hair.

Silence in the room.

A stupid question, then. And one she obviously didn’t feel at liberty to answer with Jérôme’s bodyguard near by.

Trent was starting to suspect that the security measures around the villa weren’t simply designed to prevent people getting in. Perhaps they were there to stop people getting out, too.

‘What about you?’ he asked Alain. ‘You took my phone. Do you have one of your own?’

The bodyguard nodded once. His jaw was fixed. Face stern.

‘So what do you think? Could Jérôme have them call you on it?’

‘It’s possible.’

‘Is it likely?’

He pursed his lips. ‘I do not think so.’ He patted his jacket. Opposite side to where his Ruger was stashed. ‘But it’s no problem. I have it with me.’

‘Good. Keep it charged at all times.’

‘M. Moreau has a mobile, too. I tried calling it already.’

‘Let me guess. No answer.’

‘We should try again.’

‘Be my guest. Dial as many times as you like.’ Trent gestured towards the desk phone. ‘But your call won’t connect. The first thing the gang will have done is to search him. They’ll have found his phone and destroyed it. They can’t risk being traced.’

Alain considered the point for a moment, mouth twisted in thought, then he moved alongside the desk and raised the telephone receiver to his ear. He punched a fast sequence into the keypad and stared at Trent and waited. Then a muscle in his cheek twitched and his lips thinned. He lowered the receiver.

‘It bounced straight to his message service,’ he said.

‘It’ll stay that way, too. I guarantee it.’

Trent was about to say something more, to suggest where they might begin, when he heard the sudden fierce growl of engine noise and the scrabble of tyres on the gravel outside. The bass thump of a stereo was loud and intrusive. Some kind of electro-pop.

Alain crossed to one of the curtains and peered outside against the harsh white light. He squinted, a pained expression on his face, as if he’d smelt something foul.

‘You’re expecting somebody else?’ Trent asked.

Stephanie smiled tightly. She picked at her thumb some more.

‘My husband’s son,’ she muttered.

The noise of the engine and the brash stereo died at the same instant. A door slammed. Trent heard footsteps on the crushed stone, moving at pace.

‘Does he know what’s happened?’

‘I contacted him,’ Alain said, allowing the curtain to fall closed. He blinked fast, eyes watering. ‘I warned him not to speak to anyone.’

‘OK,’ Trent said. He didn’t like what he was hearing, but it wasn’t anything he could change. ‘There’ll be tough decisions ahead. His input could be useful.’

‘You may hope so,’ Stephanie replied. ‘For me, I am not so sure.’

Jérôme Moreau’s son didn’t approach by stealth. It took him a long time to jiggle his key into the lock on the front door and he was whistling as he came along the corridor. The tune wasn’t anything Trent might have expected. It was fast and shrill and carefree.

The skinny young man who burst into the room wasn’t anything Trent might have expected, either.

He was drunk or high or possibly both. He swayed as he entered, his stringy arms flailing loosely from a colourful Hawaiian shirt. He wore a dazed grin beneath a mop of sun-bleached hair and he clapped Alain on the shoulder before swerving past Trent and staggering towards a drinks cabinet on the far side of the room.

He grabbed a cut-glass decanter of whisky and poured a generous measure into a tumbler. He lifted the glass to his face and sniffed it, then wrinkled his nose. He experimented with a taste, recoiled dramatically, and slammed the tumbler back down. He added ice cubes to the mix. Took a larger sip. Hummed in satisfaction.

‘Philippe?’

He spun around at the sound of Stephanie’s voice and covered his heart with his hand, as if he’d been spooked by a ghost.

‘
Maman!
 ’ He summoned a dramatic bow.

‘Sit down, Philippe.’

‘As you wish,
maman
.’

He rotated his hand at the wrist in a flourish and dropped into the tan leather chesterfield. His body jolted with the impact and he spilt alcohol on his lap. He chuckled stupidly, as if delighted by the moist patch that had appeared on his jeans.

‘You’re
drunk
,’ Stephanie said, and her tone suggested it wasn’t the first time she’d said those words to him.

He swayed at the waist, spluttering with laughter.

‘He’s no use to us like this,’ Trent said, voice hard.

‘You understand that I’m not his mother.’ Stephanie gave Philippe a withering look. ‘We’re almost the same age. Something he resents almost as much as my marriage to his father.’

Philippe raised his glass to Trent. ‘And you are . . . ?’

‘The negotiator,’ he said, and told him his name. ‘I’m here to help get your father back alive.’

‘An expert.’ Philippe’s teeth chipped off the edge of his tumbler. ‘Just like Alain. He’s the expert who keeps my father safe.’

Trent turned to Alain. The bodyguard hadn’t moved since Philippe had stepped into the room. His large hands were buried deep inside his trouser pockets, tendons standing out like thick cords on his forearms. His jaw was clenched, his face betraying neither disapproval nor surprise.

‘You let him talk to you this way?’ Trent asked.

‘He’s the son of my employer.’

‘And if he wasn’t?’

Alain relaxed for an instant. Just the idea of it gave him a wistful, faraway look.

Trent returned his attention to Philippe. He folded his arms across his chest. Summoned his full height. He was just over six feet tall. Athletically built and physically fit. He couldn’t match Alain for physical presence but he could cut an imposing figure when the situation demanded it. Especially when the guy he was aiming to impose himself on was drunk or stoned. Especially when the guy in question was sitting down and Trent was standing up.

‘You need to drink some coffee,’ Trent told him. ‘You need to pay attention to what I’m about to say.’

He waved a hand. ‘I listen better when I’m drunk. Believe me, it’s true. Here.’ He held out his glass. ‘Pour me some more.’

Trent watched him for a beat, unmoving. The guy was a wreck. The Hawaiian shirt he had on was unbuttoned close to his navel, revealing a dense thatch of knotted blond hair. His stonewashed jeans were rolled at the cuffs over tanned shins and a battered pair of canvas espadrilles. His hair was an uncombed mess, he hadn’t shaved in days and the fleshy skin around his sunken eyes and blown pupils was discoloured and pouched.

Philippe shrugged and returned his glass to his lips. He slurped the last of his whisky and tipped an ice cube into his mouth. He grinned a stupid grin, the cube clenched between his molars, like he was smiling around a fat cigar.

Trent didn’t wait any longer. He shed his composure like a man stepping out of a shower. He surged forwards, drew back his right arm and swung fast, slapping Philippe hard on the side of the face. His hand was open, fingers spread. The impact was loud and percussive. It stung his palm.

Philippe’s head snapped to the side. A trickle of drool escaped his lips. He inhaled on instinct, then croaked and gagged and clutched a hand to his throat. The ice cube was lodged there.

Stephanie gasped and stood up, knocking back her chair. There was no response from Alain. Trent hadn’t expected one.

He ducked down and seized Philippe by the waistband of his jeans, yanking him roughly off the couch, the tumbler falling from his hand and smashing on the stone floor. Philippe landed on his side, curled into a ball. He convulsed. He heaved drily. Trent didn’t waste time checking his airways. He hoisted him up onto his hands and knees and then he thumped him hard between the shoulder blades using the heel of his hand. Thumped him again, jabbing down fast, the sound like a mallet striking a drum.

No good. The ice cube was still stuck. Philippe gaped up at Trent with his eyes bulging and his mouth wide open as if in a silent scream.

Trent got behind him and wrapped his arms around his torso. He balled his right hand into a fist and clenched it with his left and heaved up and in towards Philippe’s diaphragm. One thrust. Two. No difference. He thrust extra hard the third time around.

Philippe convulsed and coughed and hacked up the ice cube, spitting it out of his mouth. He sucked air desperately, groaning and wheezing.

Trent hauled him away from the broken glass. He knelt beside him. Watched Philippe rock his head and sigh and splutter. Waited until he gazed up at him, trembling in shock and outrage.

‘Lesson One,’ Trent said. ‘I don’t work for your father, so I don’t take any attitude from you. If you plan to be part of this situation, you’re going to drink some coffee. If you refuse, you’re out. Got that?’

Philippe opted to drink the coffee and Alain left the room to prepare it. By the time he returned with a solid silver tray in his hand, Philippe had dragged himself back to the chesterfield. His body was tilted over to one side and his breathing was very deliberate. He was inhaling and exhaling like it was a new and slippery skill he’d just acquired.

Alain set the tray down on the corner of the desk. There was a steaming white mug and an aluminium coffee pot on it.

Trent moved across and picked up the mug. Heat leaked through the porcelain against his palm. The coffee was black and hot and strong. Trent smelled its earthy aroma as he shoved the mug towards Philippe and wrapped his hands around it. He could see Philippe’s gaunt reflection in the dark liquid as he lowered his face to take a sip.

It occurred to Trent that Philippe was exactly the brattish, spiteful type of guy who might try throwing the scalding liquid in his face. So he was cautious, but he remained close.

Philippe wasn’t drinking fast. He was imbibing from the mug much slower than he had from the whisky tumbler. Trent snatched at Philippe’s left wrist and tapped the face of his gold wristwatch. Told him to stop wasting time.

Truth was, Trent wasn’t a great believer in the power of caffeine to sober anybody up. But he did believe that shock and fear and intimidation could work, and he was more than willing to test the theory.

He waited until Philippe was slurping at the rim again before reaching out and tilting the mug at the base.

Philippe groaned in complaint, his eyes grown wide.

Trent tipped harder.

The muscles in Philippe’s throat pulsed. He tried to lower the mug. Trent held it steady.

Philippe whined through his nose.

‘Drink,’ Trent said.

He whined with more urgency.

‘Drink.’

Philippe’s gullet opened. He moaned. He gagged. Hot coffee spilled from his mouth, running down his chin and soaking into his shirt.

‘Please,’ Stephanie said, from behind him. ‘It’s enough.’

Trent turned and gave her a savage look. She was sitting forwards on her chair, bare knees pressed together, hands clasped tight in her lap.

He was struck again by the contrast with how Aimée would likely behave. If she were here, she’d have elbowed him out of the way so that she could be the one forcing the coffee into Philippe.

‘It’s not enough,’ Trent told Stephanie. ‘The men who took your husband could call at any moment.’

Philippe rocked his head back and gasped. He wiped his jaw with the back of his wrist.

The mug was empty.

Trent seized it and snatched up the coffee pot and poured a refill, holding Alain’s eye. The bodyguard stared back, steady and unmoving.

‘It’s OK,’ Philippe said, waving his hand. ‘I’m fine now.’

Trent set the coffee pot down. He returned to the sofa. Jabbed the mug towards Philippe.

‘Again.’

‘It’s fine, I said.’

‘Again.’

‘I’m fine, I tell—’

Trent didn’t wait to hear more. He snatched a knuckle-full of Philippe’s hair, yanked his head back until his jaw fell open and slammed the mug against his teeth.

‘Drink,’ he said.

Philippe swallowed some of the coffee but the rest sluiced down his neck and chest. Trent didn’t back off. He poured until the mug was empty. Philippe groaned and rolled his head to one side. His skin was flushed around his lips and jaw. It matched his reddened cheek.

‘One more,’ Trent said.

‘But that is enough. Believe me.’

‘One. More.’

Trent refilled the mug to the brim. He upended the coffee pot, adding a sludge of grinds to the mix. He fitted Philippe’s hand around the mug. Clamped his fingers there.

‘Need my help?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Philippe muttered. ‘I’ll drink it.’

And like a kid clearing all his greens from his plate, he went ahead and did exactly that.