‘Hold on tight, madame,’ Claudine murmured as Julian revved the engine.
He slid the car into gear and rocketed from the car park. I gritted my teeth as we made a sharp left turn away from the casino. Behind us, moonlight danced on black water, beauty over deep currents that could suck a soul under.
‘Tell me where!’ Julian screamed over the engine as we climbed the hill.
I pried one hand from its death grip on the door to point at my villa. Julian waited for me to pass through the gate before driving off, one arm across the back of Claudine’s seat.
Chapter Twelve
An insistent knocking catapulted me from sleep into panic. Only the Gestapo came calling at night; only they made that sort of racket. Damn it, I was careful! I grabbed a dress from the wardrobe at random, and slid my feet into a pair of shoes. I was halfway out of the balcony door, with my gun in hand, when I realised that it was mid-morning and here in Portugal, the Gestapo held no more sway than any other gang of street thugs.
Peering over the gate I caught a glimpse of the red highlights gleaming in my neighbour’s chestnut hair.
‘Inconsiderate cow.’
I returned to my bedroom and ran a comb through my hair. The sgian dubh on my thigh was more out of habit than caution, but there was no need for the PPK. I slipped it into my handbag and went to meet Claudine.
‘Good morning,’ I tried not to snarl.
‘Bonjour, madame.’ Her smile was too bright for the early hour. ‘Have I woken you up?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ah, well, now that you’re awake, I have decided to introduce you to Estoril.’
My compliance assumed, Claudine ducked under my arm and led the way into my house, chattering as she walked. Taken individually, her features were unspectacular, but the energy she emitted was engaging.
‘Frankly speaking, my dear, you have stirred up an awful lot of gossip this morning,’ she said.
‘Me?’
‘Oh, everyone’s used to seeing Christophe being difficult. But you’re new.’ She laughed in a very self-satisfied way. ‘Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m delighted the old dears have found someone else to gossip about.’
‘Dare I ask what they’re saying?’
‘Fiction.’ She waved her hand airily. ‘Like everything else here. My favourite story is that you’re an actress, on the run after being caught in flagrante with Pétain!’
‘You cannot be serious!’ I laughed. ‘The Maréchal is old enough to be my grandfather!’
‘Does that matter?’ She rummaged through my cabinets, finally putting two cups on the table. ‘Where do you keep your coffee?’
The small bag of beans hid in the back of the second cabinet. I poured a handful into the grinder and cranked the handle. It didn’t look like very much and added a few more. There was something calming about this process of making coffee.
‘I’m nowhere near as interesting as that.’
‘Perhaps. Perhaps not. But you are kind to small animals and mutilated Germans.’ She rested her elbows on my table and dropped her chin on to her crossed hands. ‘I’m assuming the bit about small animals.’
‘Of course.’
It was hard to keep up with her. The smell of coffee began to infuse the room and I felt a little more alert.
‘So what is your story?’ she asked.
‘Story?’ I paused halfway to the cupboard for the sugar bowl. Claudine was a gossip, which could be as dangerous as it could – occasionally – be convenient. I fixed a bland smile on to my face. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, you know. Where do you come from? How did you get here? Why on earth did you choose this place? And what made you want to defend Quasimodo?’
‘Is he that bad?’
She looked confused. ‘No, I don’t suppose so.’
‘And does he kick small dogs?’
‘If he does, I’ve not heard of it.’ She relaxed, seeing where the conversation was leading. ‘But I suppose you’re right. I sound like Laura, don’t I? I confess, I’ve never spoken to him, but it was a tragedy, what happened.’
‘How he got the scars?’
I poured the coffee and gestured for her to continue.
‘The tank he was driving took a shell. This was fairly early on, of course. The major dragged his unconscious body from the wreck.’
‘The major?’
The man with the blue cat’s eyes and smarmy grin didn’t seem the sort to save anyone other than himself. Did that overwhelming arrogance hide a selfless bravery?
‘He received the Ritterkreuz that day. The major, that is. The attack was at his command and rather a victory.’ Her voice had gone flat and I guessed that victory was against the French. ‘Despite the injuries they sustained.’
‘Really?’
I was impressed: the Knight’s Cross was the Third Reich’s medal of honour. I hadn’t seen it at the major’s throat last night, and blinked. He didn’t seem the sort to tone down his merits. If someone earned that cross, they probably wore it pinned to their pyjamas at night.
She sipped the coffee and cringed. Fumbled for the sugar bowl and stirred in a spoonful. Tasted it and then added a second.
‘Real sugar? I’m impressed. In any case, someone said that Rommel himself pinned it on the major, but you know how gossip is.’ Disdain pulled her mouth into a small moue and I struggled not to laugh at the irony.
‘So what’s your story, Madame Deschamps?’
‘Claudine,’ she corrected with a stern look. ‘I’ll have been here two years in December. I never thought it would be this long. Didn’t think the war would go on this long.’
She hadn’t answered my question, from which I could only guess that she also had a past she preferred to keep quiet.
‘Who did?’
‘Oh, there are people enough who want it to continue. Who make sure it continues.’ For a moment, her face darkened. Then she pushed the porcelain cup to
