They were at his car in under five minutes.
Chapter 22
Helen walked across the bridge and entered the park. It was a beautiful day, but nothing could improve her mood after the royal fuck-up of last night. Somebody somewhere had failed to communicate the critical nature of the mission to secure the movements of Madame Bisset. This was her one regret when relying upon local police: they weren’t military. It was the ultimate irony of her job when dealing with civilian authorities. Her mind cast back to working with entrenched police forces elsewhere in the world; the extreme discipline which was bread and butter to the British military wasn’t always transferred when embedded in a provincial unit.
The officer guarding Madame Bisset had been tricked, that much was clear. But why had he been alone? And why wasn’t there surveillance to the rear of the apartment building? The lame excuse had come back as two officers being taken ill last night and unable to report on duty. Their replacements had arrived too late. Helen recalled that this was why Marie Bisset’s interview was rescheduled for this morning. It was monumentally frustrating but one thing was for certain: Marie Bisset was gone. Had Helen underestimated the woman’s resourcefulness or had someone got to her first? The gendarme on duty said he’d been called away to another emergency: a man who’d been attacked in the stairwell, but who’d disappeared into thin air shortly after. It stank. But the worst part was when she’d read the description of the man: white, Caucasian, six foot, blonde hair and blue eyes, and well built.
It was no coincidence and confirmed that Khalil was running his own investigation orchestrated by Grant Tennyson.
She felt like kicking the cement beneath her feet every couple of steps, but that wouldn’t help. It was the desire of a petulant child who’d lost her favourite toy.
Helen’s phone rang, and it was her father. It was a surprisingly welcome distraction. Her father’s voice was calm and reassuring.
‘Hi, Dad.’ She explained that she was on her way to work.
‘Of course you are, darling. You always are.’
‘That’s why I’m here, Dad. You know that.’
‘Busy?’ he asked.
‘Always. How’s Mum?’
‘She’s having her hair coloured for the party. We were wondering if you might not make it?’
Her parents’ ruby wedding-anniversary celebration was arranged for the weekend after next. Two hundred invites had gone out and Helen knew they desperately wanted her to attend. Her plan was to be there but the way things were shaping up here in France, it might not be possible. She felt the familiar pull of guilt.
‘Of course I’m going to be there,’ she said. The summit was next week. If that went without a hitch, she should make it back.
‘Well, that’s marvellous. How are you, darling?’ he asked. She recognised the tone. Her parents had been concerned for her state of mind ever since she’d lost Luke, even though it was three years ago. She couldn’t blame them, because their sorrow at losing their only grandchild was barely overshadowed by hers as a mother.
‘I’m good, Dad. I’m on a new case and it’s keeping me busy. I think…’ The phone crackled, and the call cut out. She gazed around her, baffled that she’d lost a signal in the heart of a European city.
‘Dad?’
‘Helen?’ he replied. ‘What did you say?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ she said. She’d been about to tell him her suspicion that Grant was here in Lyon. But now, she decided against it. He’d only worry further.
‘The weather’s nice.’ Helen fell back on an easy topic.
‘It’s raining here,’ her father said.
She laughed. ‘Of course it is! It’s summer!’ It buoyed her to hear his voice and to discuss mundane issues like the British weather. Next they’d be talking about tea.
‘I finish up here soon and when I do I’ll bring some Belgian chocolates back for you and Mum.’
He was pleased, and they chatted for a few minutes more about family and British politics. Chasing postings around the globe meant that Helen avoided current affairs, and that suited her. She kept up to date as much as she was expected, but she ignored the media in general.
‘You’d love it here, Dad – the restaurants and the cafes, and the weather!’
They chatted for a minute or so longer, but she was preoccupied by thoughts of her father’s face when he’d seen his grandson for the first time. It was only in a photograph. Luke had died in the hospital in her arms. She closed her eyes and cursed her body.
‘Dad, I need to go. I’ll call you later in the week. Give my love to Mum. I’ll be at the party, I promise,’ she said and hung up.
The hot summer sun beat down on her head and she turned her face up to it. She paused halfway over the bridge and let a slight breeze from the river refresh her. The water swirled beneath her and she peered into it, hoping to find what? Some kind of explanation? Luke’s face?
She carried on walking and forced herself to focus on the day ahead. Maybe finding someone else’s child might help her find peace.
She refocused and cleared her head, physically shaking it as if that would help. It did. The evidence found in Madame Bisset’s permanent residence was their strongest lead yet that the head of Khalil’s personal security, and the man charged with Hakim’s safety, was still alive. Not only that, but the fact that he had visited his mother, thus presumably was free to roam and not held captive like his ward, seriously implicated him. That was her focus for today. It was looking more likely with each passing hour that Jean-Luc was at the centre of Hakim’s disappearance. The forensic results would show if Jean-Luc had been in the flat where the blue Peugeot 206 had driven to, which the old woman had said was occupied by Les Beurs; that would be concrete evidence that he was in on Hakim’s abduction, but for that she’d
