Gaston shrugged. ‘It was the busiest time.’
‘Were you in your car?’
The antique dealer shook his head, gesturing towards his brother. ‘He wanted to choose himself.’
‘What was his name?’
‘He called himself Stefan. Stefanie.’
Felicite frowned. ‘What nationality?’
‘Romanian, he said. A lot of them have come from the East. He had an accent.’
‘What happened?’
‘It was to calm Charles down: you told me I had to. It meant getting him someone,’ said Gaston, defensively. ‘We were all together, when we got back. He was very good. He had to stay, obviously. This morning Charles said he wanted Stefan for another day: that he liked him. We fixed a price. I left them up here this afternoon, while I was downstairs in the shop.’
‘How?’
‘Pushed his face down into the pillow from behind, until he suffocated. That’s how I found him. Charles says he didn’t know he was doing it: that he was excited.’
Felicite crossed to the corner. Charles hunched down, cowering, at her approach. ‘Why!’ she shouted.
The man tried to make himself smaller, not replying.
‘Why!’ she shouted again.
‘Sorry,’ he said, mouse-voiced.
‘Tell me why.’ Felicite’s tone wasn’t so strident. It wasn’t as good as the feeling she got taking risks or partying with a group but it was close: there was a thrill making grown men cringe, nervously doing whatever she told them.
‘Wanted to,’ mumbled the man. ‘Felt nice.’
It was an inconvenience, decided Felicite, allowing the anger: an intrusion for which she had to adjust when she’d thought she had everything worked out in its logical sequence. She leaned even closer to the man who still smelled of his victim’s cologne. ‘You’re stupid!’
He looked up and as close as she was Felicite clearly saw the madness in his eyes and was momentarily unsure how much longer she could control him. Another reason for moving on from this inherited group, she thought, recalling her earlier uncertainty about Jean Smet.
‘Not stupid,’ snarled Charles.
It would be wrong to show any fear: wrong to betray it to the man in front of her, to whom she couldn’t surrender control, and wrong, too, in front of the other men who had always and unquestioningly had to accept her as their leader. ‘Stupid!’ she repeated, her voice loud again. ‘Admit to me you’re stupid!’
‘No!’
‘Say it!’
‘Stupid,’ whispered the man.
‘Louder!’
‘Stupid.’
‘Louder still!’
‘Stupid!’ Charles shouted. He began to cry.
‘That’s good,’ said Felicite, soft again, encouraging. ‘Now promise me you won’t do anything like it again.’
‘Promise.’
‘Say I promise I won’t hurt anyone again: won’t kill anyone again.’
‘I promise I won’t hurt anyone again: won’t kill anyone again.’
‘That’s very good, Charles. You won’t forget that, will you?’
‘No.’
Felicite turned to his brother. ‘Your storage basement has a security door, right? And your own cell?’
‘Yes?’ queried Gaston.
To the head-bowed man in front of her Felicite said: ‘I want you to take Stefan down into the basement. And all his clothes. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tell me what you’ve got to do.’
‘Take him downstairs and put him in the cell.’
‘With his clothes,’ she prompted.
‘With his clothes,’ he agreed.
‘No!’ said Gaston, still close to where the drinks were. As Felicite turned again, she saw him pouring more whisky for the agitated Smet. Charles had been straightening but now he stopped, looking for guidance beyond Felicite to his protective brother. Gaston said: ‘I’ll get rid of the body, tonight. Cleanse it with a detergent, a spirit, before putting it naked into the river. It’ll be all right.’
‘No,’ said Felicite. ‘I want it kept, for the moment.’
‘Why?’ demanded the nervous Smet from the window.
‘Because I say so,’ insisted Felicite, who had no clear idea why she’d said what she had but didn’t want to be seen immediately to change her mind. She moved away from Charles Mehre, returning to the others. ‘Gin,’ she ordered. ‘Just ice.’
‘I want to get rid of the body,’ insisted Gaston stubbornly.
‘There might be a use for it. He’s a whore, probably entered Holland illegally in the first place. No one’s going to miss him. Whores disappear all the time.’ She turned back to the hunched man in the corner. ‘I said take him downstairs!’
Charles Mehre looked between Felicite and his brother, like a trapped animal.
Gaston capitulated. ‘Take him downstairs.’
‘That’s better,’ said Felicite. She was becoming irritated by the constant challenge, from too many people. She waited until Charles had stumped from the bedroom, the body heavy over his shoulder, and Gaston had fetched her drink before she said: ‘I don’t want him around Mary any more. Not until I say so. He’s too dangerous.’
‘Who’s going to look after her?’ demanded Cool.
‘Has anyone been to the house today?’ Felicite said, to Gaston.
‘Charles was going tonight,’ said the man.
‘I’ll go,’ decided Felicite. This had to be the last time: the end. Everything was falling apart. She supposed she should talk about the television appeal: she’d left Smet telling them when she looked at the body. She felt suddenly tired of them, not wanting to be with them any more that night. Instead she was anxious to get to the beach house. To be by herself with Mary. Her Mary. She said: ‘The pictures don’t look anything like me. Nothing’s changed.’
Mary didn’t intend it to happen – didn’t know why it did – but a tiny mewing sound escaped when she heard the key. She didn’t care who it was, even if it was the woman. When it was the woman Mary was glad the heaviness of the door would have hidden the sound she’d made. She didn’t know how she came to be there but she found herself close to the door, expectantly, when it swung open. She moved back slightly, but the woman didn’t come into the cell. Instead she stepped back, smiling, gesturing Mary out into the larger room.
‘Did you think I’d forgotten you?’ Felicite’s voice was quiet, friendly, with only a trace of huskiness.
‘I don’t know.’ Mary shrugged. She felt better, being with someone. The woman didn’t seem so threatening tonight.
‘You should have known I wouldn’t do that. I don’t want to hurt you.’
‘Let me go, then.’
‘Soon. You must be hungry.’
Mary was. The last she’d had to eat were the two rolls the snuffling man had brought for breakfast the previous morning. ‘Yes,’ she admitted.
‘I’ve got us both a meal,’ said Felicite, pointing. There was a tray on one of the low tables, by the central dance floor. On it was laid out bread, cold meat, fruit and cheese. There was also a bottle of red wine and a bottle of water and two glasses.
‘Do you eat with your mama and papa?’ asked Felicite, leading the way.
