to do with him. This wasn't his family. He had no right to be here. More officials had turned up: senior policemen, senior firemen. They were moving slowly through the wreckage, occasionally turning over a plank of wood or moving a piece of broken furniture as if they might uncover the one simple clue that would tell them why this had taken place.
“We have telephoned to your consul,” the policeman was saying. “They will come to take you home. But they must send a representative from Lyon. It is a long way. So tonight you must wait here in Saint-Pierre.”
“I know who did this,” Alex said.
“Comment?”
“I know who was responsible.” Alex glanced in the direction of the house. “You have to go into the town. There is a yacht tied to the jetty. I didn't see the name but you can't miss it. It's huge
… white. There's a man on the yacht; his name is Yassen Gregorovich. You have to arrest him before he can get away.”
The policeman stared at Alex, astonished. Alex wondered how much he had understood.
“I am sorry? What is it that you say? This man, Yassen…”
“Yassen Gregorovich.” “You know him?” “Yes.”
“Who is he?”
“He's a killer. He is paid to kill people. I saw him this morning.”
“Please!” The policeman held up a hand. He didn't want to listen to any more. “Wait here.” Alex watched him walk away towards the parked cars, presumably to find a senior officer. He took a sip of water, then stood up himself. He didn't want to sit here watching the events from a folding chair like a picnicker. He walked towards the house. There was an evening breeze but the smell of burnt wood still hung heavily all around. A scrap of paper, scorched and blackened, blew across the gravel. On an impulse, Alex reached down and picked it up. He read: caviar for breakfast, and the swimming pool at his Wiltshire mansion is rumoured to have been built in the shape of Elvis Presley. But Damian Cray is more than the world's richest and most successful pop star. His business ventures—including hotels, TV stations and computer games—have added millions more to his personal fortune.
The questions remain. Why was Cray in Paris earlier this week and why did he arrange a secret meeting with—
That was all there was. The paper turned black and the words disappeared.
Alex realized what he was looking at. It must be a page from the article that Edward Pleasure had been working on ever since he had arrived at the house. Something to do with the mega-celebrity Damian Cray…
“Excusez-moi, jeune homme…”
He looked up and saw that the policeman had returned with a second man, this one a few years older, with a downturned mouth and a small moustache. Alex's heart sank. He recognized the type before the man had even spoken. Oily and self-important, and wearing a uniform that was too neat, there was disbelief etched all over his face.
“You have something to tell us?” he asked. He spoke better English than his colleague.
Alex repeated what he had said.
“How do you know about this man? The man on the boat.”
“He killed my uncle.”
“Who was your uncle?”
“He was a spy. He worked for MI6.” Alex took a deep breath. “I think I may have been the target of the bomb. I think he was trying to kill me…”
The two policemen spoke briefly together, then turned back to Alex. Alex knew what was coming. The senior policeman had rearranged his features so that he now looked down at Alex with a mixture of kindness and concern. But there was arrogance there too: I am right. You are wrong. And nothing wilt persuade me otherwise. He was like a bad teacher in a bad school, putting a cross beside a right answer.
“You have had a terrible shock,” the policeman said. “The explosion … we already know that it was caused by a leak in the gas pipe.”
“No…” Alex shook his head.
The policeman held up a hand. “There is no reason why an assassin would wish to harm a family on holiday. But I understand. You are upset; it is quite possible that you are in shock. You do not know what it is you are saying.”
“Please—”
“We have sent for someone from your consulate and he will arrive soon. Until then it would be better if you did not interfere.”
Alex hung his head. “Do you mind if I go for a walk?” he said. The words came out low and muffled.
“A walk?”
“Just five minutes. I want to be on my own.”
“Of course. Do not go too far. Would you like someone to accompany you?”
“No. I'll be all right.”
He turned and walked away. He had avoided meeting the policemen's eyes and they doubtless thought he was ashamed of himself. That was all right. Alex didn't want them to see his fury, the black anger that coursed through him like an arctic river. They hadn't believed him! They had treated him like a stupid child!
With every step he took, images stamped themselves on his mind. Sabina's eyes widening as she took in the wreck of the house. Edward Pleasure being flown to some city hospital. Yassen Gregorovich on the deck of his yacht, gliding off into the sunset, another job done. And it was Alex's fault! That was the worst of it. That was the unforgivable part. Well, he wasn't going to sit there and take it. Alex allowed his rage to carry him forward. It was time to take control.
When he reached the main road, he glanced back. The policemen had forgotten him. He took one last look at the burnt-out shell that had been his holiday home, and the darkness rose up in him again. He turned away and began to run.
Saint-Pierre was just under a mile away. It was early evening by the time he arrived there and the streets were packed with people in a festive mood. In fact, the town seemed busier than ever.
Then he remembered. There was a bullfight tonight and people had driven in from all around to watch it.
The sun was already dipping behind the horizon but daylight still lingered in the air as if accidentally left behind. The street lamps were lit, throwing garish pools of orange onto the sandy pavements. An old carousel turned round and round, a spinning blur of electric bulbs and jangling music. Alex made his way through it all without stopping. Suddenly he was on the other side of the town and the streets were quiet again. The night had advanced and everything was a little more grey.
He hadn't expected to see the yacht. At the back of his mind he had thought that Yassen would have left long ago. But there it still was, moored where he had seen it earlier that day, a lifetime ago. There was nobody in sight. It seemed that the whole town had gone to the bullfight. Then a figure stepped out of the darkness and Alex saw the bald man with the sunburn. He was still dressed in the white suit. He was smoking a cigar, the smouldering tip casting a red glow across his face.
There were lights glinting behind the portholes of the boat. Would he find Yassen behind one of them? Alex had no real idea what he was doing. Anger was still driving him blindly on. All he knew was that he had to get onto the yacht and that nothing was going to stop him.
The man's name was Franco. He had stepped down onto the jetty because Yassen hated the smell of cigar smoke. He didn't like Yassen. More than that; he was afraid of him. When the Russian had heard that Edward Pleasure had been injured, not killed, he had said nothing, but there had been something intense and ugly in his eyes. For a moment he had looked at Raoul, the deckhand. It had been Raoul who had actually placed the bomb … too far from the journalist's room, as it turned out. The mistake was his. And Franco knew that Yassen had very
