Blake said: ‘Will you work from Brussels with us?’
Sanglier shook his head, intending to be instantly available for any call from Paris. ‘Not on a day-to-day basis. Brussels is easily reached. I’ll come as and when I judge it necessary.’
As they rose to leave Sanglier said: ‘This could be even bigger than the Triads. Don’t forget that.’
Claudine doubted that they would be allowed to.
On their way back along the corridor Blake said: ‘You two have any personal problems the last time?’
‘Not really,’ said Claudine. If she were right about Sanglier the bastard had virtually offered her to his lesbian wife, which was difficult to conceive, unless he was sexually perverse. It could explain their marriage, she supposed. ‘Why?’
‘Thought the atmosphere was a little chilly at times.’
‘Just professional, as I told you on the way here.’
‘He’s right about its importance.’
‘Unless she’s found, safe and well, by the time we get to Brussels.’
He stood directly opposite her in the elevator, looking at her unblinkingly: his eyes had a strange blueness, seeming to vary from light to dark. He said: ‘Well, how did I do?’
‘You could have been a little more deferential,’ replied Claudine honestly.
The easy smile came at once. ‘What the hell! He can’t put electrodes on my balls or shoot me, can he?’
Shit, thought Claudine, at once recognizing the psychological flaw. He’d survived Ireland and convinced himself he was invulnerable. So everything now had to be a test, pushed to the limit. Such people were dangerous.
Claudine did not return to her own office but went immediately to Kurt Volker’s on the floor below. The plump, habitually dishevelled German beamed at the announcement but agreed there was no purpose in his travelling with her to Brussels until they learned what sort of investigation it was.
The man gestured to his terminals. ‘I don’t really need to be with you at all. These can take me anywhere I want to go without getting out of my chair.’
‘I’d feel more comfortable with you closer,’ said Claudine.
‘I’ll be there,’ he assured her.
The late afternoon train connections gave her time to lunch with Hugo Rosetti, although in the cafeteria not in one of the better restaurants outside the Europol building. The forensic pathologist was already at a table when she arrived.
‘A lot of supposition,’ he said, after she outlined the assignment.
‘That’s what Kurt said. It’s the familiar Europol shell game, everyone shuffling responsibility.’
‘It might not even be a case at all.’
‘Let’s hope it isn’t. She’s just ten years old.’ Claudine abruptly cut herself off, alert for any reaction from the Italian. Sophia had only been three when she’d died, in a car crash with Rosetti at the wheel, so the circumstances were entirely different, apart from the loss of a daughter. But she always tried to avoid reminders. Rosetti gave no reaction.
‘Kurt’s part of the team?’ questioned the Italian, as their meal arrived.
‘We’re going to need him, if it turns out to be a crime.’
‘But not a pathologist?’ They’d met when Rosetti was appointed to the Triad investigation.
‘We don’t have a body yet. Hopefully we won’t get one.’ She paused, momentarily uncertain. What the hell, she thought. ‘And it might be a good idea for us to give each other a little space, don’t you think?’
He sipped his wine, to give himself time. ‘Do you?’
Now it was Claudine who didn’t immediately reply. ‘I believe you know how I think. And how I feel.’
‘And you know how I feel.’
Claudine pushed her plate aside. ‘Round and round we go in a circle.’
‘I haven’t misled you, ever.’
‘I’m bloody glad I don’t have any religion!’ she said, with sudden bitterness.
‘It isn’t just my being Catholic. In fact that’s the least of it. As you know.’
‘Are you going to see her this weekend?’ Claudine could not think why she’d asked. He went most weekends to the Rome clinic where Flavia, who’d suffered brain damage in the car crash, lay in the irreversible coma into which she’d lapsed after being told Sophia had been killed.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘What’s this British detective like?’
Claudine was momentarily thrown by the obvious change of subject. ‘Big. The rumour is that he did something special in Northern Ireland but no one’s found out what it was.’
‘Maybe you will.’
Claudine shrugged. ‘Maybe.’
‘Did you like him?’
Claudine began to concentrate, curious at the remark. ‘I’ve not really met him before. Haven’t now, really. I haven’t formed an opinion.’
‘If it becomes a proper case – kidnap, I mean, not anything professional as far as I’m concerned – maybe I could come down. Brussels isn’t far.’
‘Your choice,’ said Claudine. Heavily she added: ‘Like everything’s your choice. I just want you to make it.’
Mary couldn’t understand why it was taking so long. She’d been held for almost a whole day from the time she’d been tricked into the car and dad still hadn’t got her out. Maybe the woman and the stupid men in masks had been caught. That could be it: caught while trying to collect the money and refusing to say where she was. Except that one man hadn’t been caught. The one who giggled a lot, like some of the girls at school, Martha especially, when they were nervous or expecting a surprise.
She’d managed to make pee pee twice – and do the other thing – without him seeing her through the peephole. And she’d eaten all the bread he’d brought for breakfast and the roll at lunch. You couldn’t poison bread, could you? But she hadn’t drunk the soup. Or the milk that morning. Just in case. It wasn’t difficult to cup her hands and drink water from the sink faucet, in the cell.
She wished dad would hurry up. She still wasn’t properly frightened, not all the time anyway. It was just boring, in this silly room. Silly room and silly men. She was glad the woman hadn’t come. She didn’t like the woman. Gently she put her tongue against her cut cheek. It still hurt.
She jumped, startled at the sound of a key turning in the lock but had recovered by the time the heavy door swung open. The sniggering man blocked the opening.
‘Am I going home?’ Mary demanded at once.
‘You’ve got to come into the big room, for exercise,’ said Charles Mehre.
He scarcely moved aside, forcing her to brush against him to get by. She didn’t like it. Mary looked cautiously around the huge underground chamber. It was empty, apart from the man, and not as hot as the previous day. There wasn’t the sweet smell, either. ‘Where are the others?’
‘Not here.’
‘Where?’ Mary insisted.
‘Don’t know.’
‘The police have probably got them,’ she declared.
‘I’d have known,’ said the man, although uncertainly.
‘How?’ persisted Mary.
‘I would,’ insisted the man, with child-like logic. ‘You’re to shower, in there.’ He pointed to a door, as if recalling a mislaid instruction.
He’d probably look at her with no clothes on, through a peephole she couldn’t see. Mary said: ‘I don’t want to shower.’
‘She said you must. She doesn’t like smelly girls,’ protested Mehre.
‘Who said?’
‘You know.’
‘You tell me.’
‘No,’ said Mehre, looking away as if to avoid her direct stare. ‘Don’t shower if you don’t want to.’
That had been easy, Mary decided. Easy and interesting.
