‘Of course it was,’ said Claudine irritably.
‘On a mobile telephone,’ said Rampling. ‘That’s why the sound level kept rising and falling: interference from bridges and highly built-up areas. That’s why we couldn’t get any sort of fix: tomorrow we’ll use scanners.’
‘Are we going to get Mary back?’ Hillary McBride repeated her husband’s question, even-voiced, rigidly in command of herself. She added: ‘Back alive?’ and Claudine wished she hadn’t.
‘I think so,’ said Claudine reluctantly.
‘That’s not good enough,’ protested McBride.
‘It’s the best I can offer,’ said Claudine.
‘You’re supposed to know!’
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Claudine. ‘Not yet. I will but not yet.’
‘I don’t think we should press Dr Carter any more,’ said Sanglier.
‘The inquiry… inquest…?’ groped Claudine.
‘It’s a formality: we won’t need you,’ said Harrison.
‘I’d like to go back to the hotel,’ Claudine admitted.
‘What if she calls again?’ demanded Hillary McBride.
People seemed to be advancing towards her, retreating and advancing again and Claudine regretted taking the tranquillizer. With a monumental effort she said: ‘She won’t call again: not until the same time tomorrow. Maybe not even then.’
‘So you have worked something out?’ demanded Smet.
‘I want to go home,’ said Claudine.
She was unaware of the drive back to the Metropole or of Blake’s being with her until focusing jerkily upon him helping her through the foyer. She began to wonder how he’d got the key to her room but couldn’t hold the thought and then found hreself in it. He was there too, but moving around: momentarily she didn’t know where he was. He emerged from the bathroom, tossing something up and down in his hand, and as he crossed to the bureau telephone Claudine remember the bugs.
‘All clear,’ he announced, holding out the tiny pin-heads in the palm of his hand.
‘I don’t want to be by myself,’ said Claudine.
‘No,’ agreed Blake.
It hadn’t gone at all as she’d intended and Felicite was angry: frustrated. Claudine fucking Carter wasn’t frightened enough. None of them were, if they were prepared to let the woman take the call which they should all have been pleading to receive. They had to be taught a lesson.
She coasted the Mercedes into the limited parking zone outside the railway station and on her way to the public telephones thrust deeply into a refuse bin the mobile August Dehane had programmed with the number of one that had been stolen a week earlier in Bruges.
Lascelles came on the line as soon as Felicite had identified herself to his receptionist. ‘A scalpel?’
‘I’ll explain when we meet.’
‘I’m looking forward to seeing her,’ said the doctor.
‘She’s beautiful,’ promised Felicite.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
‘Hello.’
‘Where’s the lady?’ Mary had been waiting eagerly, on her feet just inside the door when she heard the key grate. Now there was a plunge of disappointment.
‘She couldn’t come,’ said Charles Mehre.
‘She promised!’ She’d become her friend. Been kind to her. It wasn’t fair.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Is she coming later?’
‘No. Just me.’
‘She promised!’ Mary repeated.
Charles Mehre shrugged.
‘I want to come outside,’ insisted Mary.
The man hesitated, blocking the entrance to the cell. ‘All right.’
He hardly moved. To pass she would have to brush against him. Mary stayed where she was. ‘I can’t get by.’
He giggled, still not moving. ‘You can if you squeeze.’
‘I don’t want to squeeze.’ He was very much like Victor, the garden boy back home. She became aware of something, surprised, but decided against referring to it yet. She was very uncertain about what was happening.
He finally shifted, although still not very much. But she was able to pass without touching him. He smelled stale. Mary went to the bench seat in front of the table at which she’d eaten on previous evenings with the woman.
‘We’re going to play games,’ he announced.
‘I don’t want to play games.’ The woman hadn’t told her about this: about anyone coming but her. It was the two of them, she’d said: special friends. Better friends than she was with dad and mom. She’d started to believe her.
‘You must!’
His voice was suddenly loud, harsh, and Mary didn’t like it. Why hadn’t the woman come, like she’d promised? ‘Where’s my food?’
‘No food.’
‘Why not? I always have food now.’
‘Not tonight.’
‘Why not?’ Mary said again. That wasn’t fair either. She did always have food now. Why was this man being mean?
‘Because.’
‘I’m hungry.’
‘No food.’
‘You’re bad!’ said Mary, talking to him as she talked to Victor at home.
‘Not bad!’ The voice was loud again but this time in protest.
‘She’ll be mad at you.’
‘No!’ The tone changed again, sulkily.
‘You don’t like her being angry at you, do you?’
‘Won’t be. Gaston said.’
Gaston, thought Mary. ‘She will be, if you don’t give me something to eat.’
‘Dance for me.’
‘No.’ She didn’t like this.
‘I want you to dance for me.’ The harshness was back.
‘I’m too hungry.’
‘Will you dance for me if I get you something to eat?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Properly, like I want you to dance?’
‘I want to eat something.’
He remained uncertainly between her cell and where she sat, shifting from foot to foot. ‘All right.’ He started across the room, towards the stairwell door, but stopped halfway, frowning back suspiciously as if there was something he didn’t understand. His lips moved but Mary didn’t hear what he said. She made herself sit back against the cushions, as if she were settled. He continued on and Mary tensed with his every step, moving the moment the door closed behind him.
