I rose, dusted the dirt from my bottom, and cycled home.
Chapter Twenty-one
So far, I had several pieces to the puzzle but no clue as to what they meant. Mentally I organised what I knew:
One: The Germans were smuggling wolfram from various small inlets along the coast.
Two: The Germans were operating some sort of intelligence ring that allowed the Luftwaffe to target Allied convoys. Major Haydn Schüller was involved, and I guessed, Hans Bendixen. Was Christophe Deschamps?
Three: Matthew was running whores near the port. Were the Germans as well? And if so, how reliable was the information being fed to either side?
Four: Adam’s Apple was employed by the British Embassy but kept turning up in a variety of places, and with people whose interests weren’t likely to be aligned.
Five: The PVDE – or at least Adriano de Rios Vilar – made it their job to watch the internationals. How much of what was happening were they aware of? And who were they, consciously or otherwise, assisting?
In the City of Spies, no one is who they claim to be . . .
Even their own political police.
In lieu of a pencil, I tapped my teaspoon against the table. The first two items were the big problems. The latter three fitted into them somewhere. Regardless, it was far too large for one person to focus on. I needed help.
I stuffed the blonde wig in my bag and freed my bicycle from the shed. As I opened the tall gate, I jumped back, startled. Claudine stood in the gateway, one hand raised to knock. She was dressed in a bright frock with large cabbage roses. The dress added colour to her dull cheeks, and she looked brittle. And very possibly hung-over.
‘Sorry to surprise you. Are you going out?’
‘Nothing that can’t wait.’ I propped the bike against the fence. ‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’
She didn’t move. ‘Christophe didn’t come home last night.’
Unsure how to act, I answered carefully.
‘Perhaps he came and went. Maybe he didn’t want to disturb you and slept in a spare room.’
‘None of the other beds were disturbed, and no matter how late, he always comes home.’ She swayed and reached out to brace herself against the door. ‘And before you suggest it, I don’t think it’s another woman.’
‘I wasn’t about to.’
‘Good.’ Her gaze returned to her feet. ‘Maybe we don’t have the perfect marriage, but I don’t think it’s someone else.’
Maybe not someone else, but perhaps something else? I wanted to pry but in this state, I figured she would tell me what she knew without much prodding.
‘Come inside – I’ll make you a cup of coffee.’
She didn’t move, even with my hand at her elbow.
‘He’s afraid, you know.’
Trying not to seem to eager, I demurred.
‘Of what? What should he be frightened of?’
‘I wish I knew. He bought a gun the other week, just after we heard of Martin Billiot’s death. Hid it in the car.’ Little white lines radiated from her pinched lips, and she suddenly looked old. ‘He’s afraid, but won’t tell me why.’
With the way their marriage appeared, I would have been surprised if he told her the time of day, but looks could be deceiving.
‘I know you think I’m foolish,’ she carried on in a dead monotone. ‘I laugh and I flirt, and then I worry that my husband might be doing the same. But you know nothing of the situation, Solange. Nothing!’
My back straightened, surprised at her attack.
‘I didn’t profess to.’
She burst into tears.
I wasn’t good with other people’s emotions. Hell, I wasn’t even good with my own. What was the protocol for dealing with something like this? At a loss for words, I awkwardly patted her shoulder and gave her my handkerchief.
‘Come on, Claudine, let’s go for a walk. He might be home, waiting, by the time we’re back.’
She followed me on to the street. Waited as I locked the gate. There was something fatalistic about her, about the situation. As if Claudine Deschamps knew her husband wouldn’t be coming back.
*
We bought ice creams from the Italian man near the Tamariz while Claudine spoke of everything except Christophe. I tried to feign interest, I really did, but despite barely interacting with Christophe, I struggled to find empathy for him. I looked away, watched a little girl build a sandcastle. In a world filled with death, with spies and smuggling and Focke-Wulfs bombing convoys, she reminded me that there was something worth fighting for. The doll beside her proved better company than the teenager sitting nearby, with her nose buried in a fashion magazine. The child looked up suddenly and her Cupid’s bow mouth opened into a circle before the dark eyes blinked. She scrambled to her feet, her face a picture of beauty.
‘Mama!’ she cried, running towards us. ‘Mama!’
Claudine turned, jumping to her feet. Eyes wide, she stared at the little girl as if she were a vision of Heaven. Or Hell.
‘Mama!’ The girl’s arms lifted, reaching for her mother.
Claudine swayed. I hadn’t though it possible for her to lose more colour but she did.
The girl ran past, a blur of chestnut curls and pink pinafore. She fell into the waiting arms of a woman who looked like an older version of the teenager. Not unlike Claudine.
My neighbour crumpled to the ground, scattering chairs and sending the seagulls fluttering. I lunged, trying to help her back to her feet.
‘Leave me alone.’ She turned her face away.
A small crowd formed around us, patting and consoling her in half a dozen different languages. She struggled to sit, resting her forehead against her knees.
‘Leave her alone,’ I snapped at the crowd. ‘She’ll be fine.’
A young man shouldered his way through. Muttering something unintelligible, he picked her up and carried her to a chair underneath an umbrella.
‘Thank you,’ I said.
He flashed an
