I slapped his wrist.
‘Finally, a break from the sun,’ he sighed. ‘Weather’s turned, but then, a lot of things are turning. The Allies are crawling up the Boot, the Krauts are on the run, the Danes have lost their government and the poor bastards out there –’ he swept his arm out towards the city – ‘they’re still starving. Yet all we can talk about is the English diplomat. This whole thing’s depressed her, you know.’
‘Who?’
‘Claudine, of course. She’s single-handedly trying to drain her wine cellar. Drowning her sorrows – wallowing in misery. Call it what you will. Wouldn’t be surprised if her little befuddled mind has juxtaposed the Englishman for that waste of space she married.’ He paused and then crossed himself. ‘God bless his miserable soul.’
Julian leant in to take a sip of his whiskey, ignoring a large drop that fell from his nose onto the back of his hand.
‘What’s your excuse?’
‘Pardon?’
‘You look as rubbish as she does. Pondering great truths or are you, too, mourning the dashing Englishman?’
‘Mourning?’ I schooled my features to give nothing away. ‘He’s dead then?’
‘Who knows?’ He rubbed his nose. ‘Might be, if the right people have got hold of him, but I think that if they wanted him dead, they’d have killed him on the steps. No, they’ll keep him alive, until he tells them whatever they’re after. Assuming, of course, that he knows anything. What happened to send you on a mad crawl through half the bars in Estoril?’
‘Consider me a restless version of Claudine.’
He didn’t laugh; he brayed. ‘Only you’re a lick more sensible, not as drunk, and your man might be overworked, but he’s not dead.’
‘You’ve seen him?’
‘A few hours ago, through the window of a car. Blasted thing almost hit me.’
‘How did he look?’
‘Exhausted. Aren’t you concerned for my safety?’
‘No. Did you dent the BMW?’
‘No sympathy from my dearest friends.’ He pulled a long face at my snort. ‘All right, then – a dear friend of one of my dearest friends. And, to be fair, you look like you might need sympathy more than I do. When was the last time you saw your dashing hero?’
‘An hour around lunchtime.’
‘Conjugal visit? Oh, you’re not married, are you?’ In the rain, his face softened. ‘From what I understand, between this, and Gabi’s news about the Azores, the German embassy has been set on its arse. No one claims to have the Englishman. Although whether to believe them is a different matter.’ He ran his fingers through his slicked-back hair. ‘I do wonder if they’re related.’
That was interesting. ‘How so?’
‘Just a guess, but he was in the courthouse. Was he involved in orchestrating the raid? How did he know where to raid?’ Julian took another sip of whiskey, and breathed a happy, fumy sigh. ‘Although rather a bit late, if you ask me. The proverbial horse has already bolted.’
Unless, as Julian said, they were after whoever had passed on that information to Matthew. Me. I picked up my empty glass, wondering whether I should order another one. How long before Matthew broke? How long before it wasn’t a few random thugs who hunted me, but the whole bloody German mission?
‘At least in France we didn’t have this sort of behaviour. Kidnappings on the streets, in broad daylight. And no one raises a finger? Julian, this war is making savages of us all.’ I was proud that my voice didn’t wobble.
‘War does that, my love.’ He stared over the rocks. ‘At least they leave the everyday man alone.’
‘And who’s that, here? The starving hordes on the street? The refugees from across Europe? Was Christophe an everyday man? Are you? A novelist who enjoys needling one side or the other, depending on the day?’
‘Depending on my mood,’ he corrected, taking a sip from the delicate crystal.
‘So both sides alternate between loving you and hating you. What’s to say you won’t be next?’
He leant back in the chair, the rain slick on his face. The corners of his mouth twitched and he swished his glass around. Stopped when he realised it was being diluted, and placed his hand over the top.
‘Ah, my dear. That’s easy. A. I’m not important enough, and B. It won’t happen to me simply because I don’t care if it does. It’s the moment that you begin to care, dear woman, when you have something that makes you want to live, that things go wrong.’
Was that it? Had I survived this long because I’d never really cared? But now there were people I cared for: my Machiavellian godfather; the broken Frenchwoman getting drunk in the dark up the hill; even the barmy Irishman across from me. And Eduard.
God help me.
‘Ghastly night to be out.’ Julian pushed my glass towards me. ‘Right then. Finish your drink and I’ll drive you home.’
*
My front door had been jemmied, but the lock hadn’t been fully reset. If they were still inside, they’d have heard the roar of Julian’s car, or watched from a window as I staggered through the gate.
Feeling more sober than I had in hours, I pulled the PPK from my bag and checked the clip. Eased the door open with my shoulder, and led with the gun’s muzzle, jumping when a flash of lightning blinded me. Thunder could hide a multitude of other sounds, but not footsteps. I eased out of my shoes.
I smelled fresh flowers and then . . . the nasty tang of Gitanes. Followed the stench down the hallway. As on my first night in Estoril, this intruder didn’t care if the smoke alerted me to his presence.
Friend or foe?
There was no light shining from under the door. I slowly turned the doorknob, easing the door back enough to make room for the gun’s nose. I crouched low. If the intruder fired first, they’d go for a chest or head shot.
The glowing cigarette gave away his whereabouts, although there could have been more than one. Holding my breath for the count of three, I took one step
