40
Achor Bale watched the blip diminish and then finally disappear off the edge of his screen. He leaned forward and switched off the tracking device. It had been a very satisfactory day’s work, when all was said and done. He had taken the initiative and it had paid off handsomely. It was a good lesson. Never leave the enemy to his own devices. Irritate him. Force him into sudden decisions that are open to error. That way you will achieve your end satisfyingly and with commendable speed.
He checked the map on the seat next to him. It would take him a good three hours to get to Rocamadour. Best to leave it until the crypt was shut and the staff had gone to their dinner. No one would expect a break-in at the Sanctuary – that would be an absurd idea. Perhaps he should crawl up the steps on his knees, like England’s King Henry II – a descendant, or so they said, of Satan’s daughter Melusine – after the priests had persuaded him to do reluctant penance for the murder of Thomas a Becket and for his dead son’s sacrilegious plundering of the shrine? Ask for dispensation. Secure himself a nihil obstat.
Mind you, he hadn’t actually killed anybody recently. Unless the girl had drowned, of course. Or the woman in the car had asphyxiated herself. Her husband had definitely still been twitching, when last he looked and Samana had been indisputably responsible for his own death.
All in all, then, Bale’s conscience was clear. He could steal the Black Virgin with impunity.
41
‘We’ve found them again. They’re heading towards Limoges.’
‘Excellent. Tell the pinheads to give us a new reading every half an hour – that way we’ll have a chance to make up for lost time and get them back on our screen.’
‘Where do you think they’re going, Sir?’
‘To the seaside?’
Macron didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. He was becoming more and more convinced that he was teamed up with an unregenerate madman – someone who bent all the rules on principle, simply to suit his own agenda. The two of them should have been back in Paris by now, happily confining themselves to a 35-hour week and leaving the continued investigation of the murder to their colleagues in the south. Macron could have been working at his squash and improving on his six-pack at the police gym. Instead, they were subsisting on prepacked meals and coffee, with the occasional catnap in the back seat of the car. He could feel himself going physically downhill. It didn’t matter to Calque, of course – he was a wreck already.
‘The weekend’s approaching, Sir.’
‘And?’
‘And nothing. It was just an observation.’
‘Well, confine your observations to the case in hand. You’re a public servant, Macron, not a lifeguard.’
Yola emerged, fully clothed, from behind the bushes.
Sabir shrugged his shoulders and made a face. ‘I’m sorry we had to undress you. Alexi was against it, but I insisted. I apologise.’
‘You did what you had to. Did Alexi see me?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Well, now he’ll know what he’s been missing.’
Sabir burst out laughing. He was astonished at how resilient Yola was being. He had half expected her to react hysterically – to lurch into a depression, or melancholia, triggered by delayed shock from the attack. But he had underestimated her. Her life had scarcely been a bed of roses up to that point and her expectations about the depths to which people would stoop in terms of their behaviour were probably a good deal more realistic than his own. ‘He’s angry. That’s why he’s gone off. I think he feels responsible for the attack on you.’
‘You must let him steal the Virgin.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Alexi. He is a good stealer. It is something he does well.’
‘Oh. I see.’
‘Have you never stolen anything?’
‘Well, no. Not recently.’
‘I thought so.’ She weighed something up in her head. ‘A gypsy can steal every seven years. Something big, I mean.’
‘How did you figure that one out?’
‘Because an old gypsy woman saw Christ carrying the Cross on the way to the Calvary hill.’
‘And?’
‘And she didn’t have any idea who Christ was. But when she saw His face, she felt pity for Him and decided to steal the nails with which they were to crucify Him. She stole one, but before she could steal the second, she was caught. The soldiers took her and beat her. She cried out to the soldiers to spare her because she had stolen nothing for seven years. A disciple heard her and said, ‘Woman, you are blessed. The Saviour permits you and yours to steal once every seven years, now and forever.’ And that’s why there were only three nails at the Crucifixion. And why Jesus Christ’s feet were crossed and not spread apart, as they should have been.’
‘You don’t believe all that hokum, do you?’
‘Of course I believe it.’
‘And that’s why gypsies steal?’
‘We have the right. When Alexi steals the Black Virgin, he won’t be doing anything wrong.’
‘I’m very relieved to hear it. But what about me? What if I find the man who attacked you and kill him? Where do I stand?’
‘He has shed our family’s blood. His should be shed in turn.’
‘As simple as that?’
‘It’s never simple, Adam. To kill a man.’
42
Sabir hesitated by the car door. ‘Have either of you ever taken a driving test?’
‘A driving test? No. Of course not. But I can drive.’
‘Can you drive, Yola?’
‘No.’
‘Okay, then. We know where we are. Alexi, you take the wheel. I’ve got to map us out a different route to the shrine. Babel’s murderer obviously knows our car – he must have found it and followed us all the way from the camp. Now that he thinks he’s finally got rid of us, we don’t want to tip him off again by blundering past him in the overtaking lane, do we?’ He spread the map out in front of him. ‘Yes. It looks like we can bypass Limoges and get to Rocamadour via Tulle.’
‘This car hasn’t got proper gears.’
‘Just stick it in drive, Alexi and press on the gas pedal.’
‘Which one’s drive?’
‘The fourth one down. The letter looks like a horse stirrup, but sideways on.’
Alexi did as he was told. ‘Hey. That’s not bad. It changes gear by itself. This is better than a Mercedes.’
Sabir could feel Yola’s eyes fixed on him from the back seat. He turned towards her. ‘Are you okay? There is
