upon us…’
The telephone jarred into the room, interrupting her. Smet, his nerves stretched, noticeably jumped. Felicite said: ‘It’ll be one of the others, shitting himself like you.’
The expectant smile with which she answered the telephone faded almost at once. It was a very short conversation, with Felicite constantly interrupting. As she replaced the receiver she said vehemently: ‘Damn Charles Mehre!’
‘What is it?’ demanded Smet, in fresh alarm.
‘He’s killed,’ said Felicite shortly.
A television had been installed in the largest of their allocated rooms and they watched McBride’s appeal in silence. When the programme finished Claudine said: ‘I wish I’d had time to brief Poncellet: he exaggerated far too much. But McBride was better than I expected: caught exactly the right note. Even Hillary saying nothing but looking like she did fitted what I wanted, a couple totally at the mercy of those who’ve got their child. They even held hands as I asked them, which they didn’t want to do.’
‘Can you imagine what it’s like!’ said Volker sympathetically.
‘Maybe it’s not enough to reassure them – I might be interpreting it wrongly – but I think Mary’s still alive,’ announced Blake quietly.
Claudine and Volker looked at him, waiting.
‘I thought I’d check the school again: see if anyone had remembered anything, after all the publicity,’ said Blake. ‘It probably wouldn’t have meant anything to Madame Flahaur if it hadn’t been the only call like it she’s had, since Mary disappeared. A woman telephoned two days ago, asking about the curriculum, particularly about the languages that are taught. That’s all she appeared interested in, according to Madame Flahaur. The prospectus she sent out was returned this morning: the address doesn’t exist. Neither does the phone number the woman left: I checked both with Belgacom on my way back.’
‘What language did the woman speak?’ demanded Claudine, immediately understanding.
‘French.’
‘Mary learning it?’
Blake nodded. ‘She started it late, behind all the other pupils. It’s her second semester.’
‘Comprehension?’
‘Below average for her age, because of the late start.’
‘It’s got the arrogance of our blond in the Mercedes,’ judged Claudine slowly. ‘Arrogance coupled with clever caution. If you’re right – and I think you might well be – we now know whoever have Mary are French-speaking. But don’t want Mary to understand what they’re saying in front of her.’
Volker nodded, also understanding now. ‘It could be a crank call. A lot of the e-mail stuff so far has been, particularly after the press conference identification.’
‘It’s feasible,’ agreed Claudine. ‘I don’t think it’s sufficient to reassure the parents that Mary’s still alive – and risk their agony if we’re wrong – but I think it’s something we can add to the profile as a possibility.’
‘It was two day ago,’ reminded Blake. ‘She could be dead by now.’
‘If they were going to kill her that quickly they wouldn’t have bothered to call the school in the first place,’ said Claudine. ‘It could also indicate they haven’t touched her sexually, either.’
John Norris was mortified by McBride’s television appeal, practically unable to believe an ambassador of his great and wonderful country could have been reduced to begging like a bum on a street corner by the manipulation of just one woman. He’d even used some of the words and expressions that she’d suggested. They’d have laughed at that, all of them: known just how successful they were being, infiltrating the very investigation the way they had. Fooled everyone except him.
But he was getting his own profile together. It was still very disjointed, a lot of threads hanging loose and needing to be tied together, but the unanswered discrepancies were there, like he’d known they would be.
He still couldn’t find the fit for the Carter woman. Just knew that she was part of it because that was his job, to see things other investigators didn’t see and point the way for them to go. Which he would, when the other indicators slid into place. It wouldn’t take long.
He’d already sent a priority demand for the full details upon which a Grand Jury arms embargo indictment had been issued against Italian arms dealer Luigi della Sialvo, in whose name two End User certificates had been issued for multi-million-dollar purchases from McBride’s corporation, before the man came on to the political scene. And another ‘what’s happening’ chase-up on all the possible disgruntled employees who’d been dismissed by Mrs McBride.
Norris was becoming suspicious of Harding’s working relationship with the English detective: by not alerting him about the eye-witnesses to the kidnap ahead of the ambassador’s preparation for that humiliating TV appeal Harding had exposed him to ridicule. The man couldn’t be trusted. Neither could McCulloch or Ritchie. If anything was going to be done properly, he’d have to do it himself. And as quickly as possible.
God knows what that poor child was going through. And there was only him to save her.
Harding had his usual table at the rue Guimard bar and got the drinks in, as the in-country host. There was a lot of noise from other tables where other agents were determinedly enjoying the unexpected pleasure of an overseas assignment but Harding’s table was quiet. He said: ‘You want to know the truth? The truth is I’m scared shitless. I knew it was going to be bad, before I even heard he was involved. But I never imagined it could be like this. He’s totally fucking paranoid.’
‘I’m not arguing with that,’ agreed McCulloch, propping his feet on the only unoccupied chair to prevent anyone’s joining them. ‘The question is: what are we going to do about it? It’s our asses in a sling.’
The Texan actually wore cowboy boots, Harding saw. He said: ‘The Europol guys know it, too. Virtually spelled it out.’
‘There’s nothing we can do,’ said Ritchie. ‘They’re the only people who can stop him.’
‘The sonofabitch is only getting a check run on the ambassador himself!’ McCulloch disclosed.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Gaston Mehre had very roughly re-dressed the boy in trousers, although he hadn’t zipped the fly or bothered with underpants. Otherwise the body was naked to the waist and without socks or shoes. The crumpled shirt nearby was flamboyantly ruched and the shoes were patent leather, with large silver buckles. There was a dried trickle of blood from the corner of his lipsticked mouth and after-death lividity, where the blood had pooled, darkened his face despite the make-up which also failed to hide completely an emerging beardline. The nipples were rouged. The eyes were bulging and the long black hair lankly matted by gel and sweat. The lingering cologne was still quite strong.
Charles Mehre’s canopied bed was in chaotic disorder, the sheets balled up and in places torn, hanging from the bed in tendrils. Only one pillow remained on the bed, heavily indented and spotted with blood. There was also a splash of blood on a mirror set into the bedhead. Directly in front of the mirror was a pair of handcuffs and beside them a thin-thonged whip. On the floor nearby there was a black leather bag, on its side: a dildo and a set of nipple clamps were spilling out.
Felicite turned away from the body, uninterested, walking back into the main room of the rambling, two- floored apartment above Gaston’s antique shop in Antwerp’s Schoenmarkt. Smet and Henri Cool were by the window, overlooking the city’s still bustling shopping district. Freed from Felicite’s restraint, Smet was smoking defiantly. Both he and Cool held whisky glasses. Gaston was by the drinks tray, pouring for himself, when Felicite entered. She shook her head against the gestured invitation. Charles Mehre was isolated in a far corner, hunched on a very upright chair. His head was low on his chest, a child caught doing something wrong. He hadn’t been given a drink. No one was talking.
Felicite said: ‘Where did you get him?’
‘On the Paardenstraat,’ said Gaston, naming Amsterdam’s homosexual centre.
‘When?’
‘Last night.’
‘Anyone see you?’
