Borrowed Light (39 page)

‘And she knows that?’

‘Yeah. Which is why she feels so guilty.’

‘Is there someone else then?’

Suttle hesitated. The someone else, he guessed, was the little girl, Leila. But that, just now, was a complication too far.

‘No, sir,’ he said. ‘Not as far as I know.’

Willard went back to Winter. How could he be sure that the guy was on the level?

‘He’s not, sir. He’s never been on the level. But that, with respect, isn’t the question we should be asking.’

‘So what is?’ Willard was attentive. He wanted to know. This was easier than talking to Parsons.

‘From where I’m sitting, sir, Winter’s had enough. I know the guy. He trained me. Believe it or not, I owe him lots. Deep
down he’s a decent man. Stuff has been happening, he won’t tell me what, but it’s definitely got to him. You’ll probably laugh
at this, but he still knows right from wrong. Just now he’s in a very bad place.’ Suttle paused. ‘Does any of that make sense?’

‘It does, Jimmy. And I’m not laughing.’ Willard looked away for a moment, deep in thought. ‘So what’s worst case?’

‘Worst case is he fucks us about again. In which case I suggest he’s on a nicking.’

‘For?’

‘Perverting the course of.’ He risked a grin. ‘Plenty of previous too.’

‘Best case?’ Willard wasn’t smiling.

‘Best case?’ Suttle took his time. ‘We set a trap. We point Mackenzie at Skelley, and we see what happens.’

‘But who sets a trap? Who are you talking about?’

‘Winter, sir. With a little help from us.’

Gabrielle, after an exhaustive search of the house, was close to despair. She’d been looking for any tiny clue that Faraday
might have left, any hint of a destination or plan. To simply disappear without leaving a note, without leaving
anything
,
was so totally out of character that she was beginning to understand the seriousness of whatever it was that had happened.

The last couple of times they’d been together, after the trauma of the accident and everything that had followed, had seemed
like the old times. They’d been close. He’d made her laugh. He’d been supportive too about her plans for Leila, and although
she knew he had reservations about adoption, she was convinced she could talk him round. The little girl needed a home, a
future. And that’s exactly what they could give her.

If only.

Even Gabrielle was beginning to admit to herself that this thing was close to impossible. She’d had to cancel the social worker’s
initial visit to the Bargemaster’s House, his opportunity to get a feel for the kind of couple who wanted little Leila so
badly, because Faraday hadn’t replied to any of her messages. That was frustrating, of course it was, but even worse were
the costs involved. She’d yet to share any of this with Joe, but the bill for the local authority assessment – without which
nothing could happen – could be more than £15,000. So far she hadn’t paid a penny because the process had yet to start, but
the Portsmouth Social Services Adoption Team wanted the money up front. In principle that was OK. She had modest savings,
and she could think of no better investment than Leila, but there was yet another problem.

Leila had been admitted on a short-stay visa. If she had had relatives in the UK, this could be extended, but since she didn’t
she’d be sent back to Gaza the moment she was discharged from the Burns Unit. This, to Gabrielle, made no sense at all. What
about outpatient treatment? What about physio for her precious hands? This, it seemed, was of little consequence. Aftercare
was assumed to be available in Gaza. And so Leila could only return to the UK if the Gazan authorities said yes and Gabrielle
and Faraday were judged to be suitable adoptive parents. That was a process that would take at least eight months, and just
now that felt like an eternity.

Gabrielle glanced at her watch. Nearly nine. She gazed round the kitchen, wondering where she hadn’t looked, what she hadn’t
checked, then she realised where – God willing – she might find a clue.

She hurried upstairs. Faraday kept his PC on a desk in the bedroom. She fired it up and went online. A couple of keystrokes
took her into his recent browsing history on the Internet. She rubbed her eyes, willing the ancient machine to speed up. Then,
quite suddenly, she was looking at what he’d done with the machine before he’d left. At 07.47 he’d logged on to the Air France
site in search of flights. His chosen destination? Paris.

She stared at the computer screen for a long moment, piecing it all together. Then she reached for the phone, dialling a number
from memory.

After a while the number answered.

‘Philippe?’ she said. ‘
C’est toi?
’

Faraday was dreaming. He emerged from the Bargemaster’s House on a sunnier day than he could ever remember. He stood on the
path beside the harbour, gazing out, wondering where the water had gone. The gleaming mud stretched clear across to the distant
smudge of Hayling Island. He clambered carefully down to the thin ribbon of pebble beach, picked his way between the scatter
of driftwood, wisps of fishing net, curls of tarry rope, wondering why there was no smell to any of this stuff. Then came
a tug on his arm and he turned to find himself looking at his son, Joe Junior. J-J, after a lifetime of silence, had shed
his deafness. He had a strange accent, foreign, but there was no problem shaping the words.

‘There, Dad.’ He was pointing towards the far horizon. ‘There … Look.’

Faraday followed him onto the mud. Expecting to sink ankle deep, as usual, he found himself supported by a delicate crust,
solid, weight-bearing, treacherous, slippery. It felt like brown ice underfoot. Father and son glided seawards, towards the
breaking line of surf across the harbour mouth, hand in hand. A band was playing, miles away, and J-J’s thin frame swayed
and bent with the lilt of the music. Then he came to a halt, catching Faraday in his arms as he began to fall.

‘There, Dad,’ he said again, pointing down this time.

Faraday followed his bony finger, lost but happy. A cormorant lay on its side on the glistening mud, limp, sodden, the long
yellow beak half open. J-J bent to it, got down on his knees, put his mouth beside the sleekness of the bird’s head, asked
about the time, then looked up, raising his thumb.

‘It’s gone, Dad,’ he whispered. ‘It’s dead.’

A police siren cut through the dream, and Faraday awoke to find himself looking at the ceiling. He rubbed his eyes, wondering
vaguely where on earth he was. Then he saw the Ibis notepad on the table
beside the bed and the tiny pile of euros he’d pocketed in change from the brasserie. Paris, he thought. Time to get moving.

The receptionist at the Royal Trafalgar had a message for Winter when he arrived. The new sauna, she said, was at last ready.
Later that morning there was to be a formal opening. Bazza had laid hands on a couple of Scandinavian air hostesses who were
prepared to pose for publicity shots in return for a free weekend. In the meantime he was trying out the new facility for
himself. Winter was welcome to join him. The invitation had the force of an order.

Winter hated saunas. The last couple of years had done nothing for his waistline and he had no intention of sharing lungfuls
of scalding air with anyone, least of all Mackenzie. On the other hand he had an hour to get back to Lou Sadler before the
rest of her day put her out of reach. She wanted to come over tomorrow with the money. She was suggesting a handover around
noon. She needed a rendezvous and an assurance that everything was in place.

The sauna was in the basement, alongside the gym. Winter tugged on the heavy wood door and let himself into the tiny changing
room. Mackenzie’s jeans and leather jacket were hanging on a hook, middle of the row. He appeared to be alone. There was a
window in the door that led to the sauna itself. Winter stepped across and took a look. Bazza was sitting on the bench on
the far side, a white hotel towel folded over his lap. His eyes were closed and his head was back against the wall. Sweat
had beaded on his face and Winter could see the slow rise and fall of his chest, but there was an oddness in the way his body
had slumped to one side.

Winter hauled on the door, knowing something wasn’t right. The heat enveloped him, thick with resin.

‘Baz?’ he shouted. ‘
Baz?
’

Mackenzie didn’t move.

Faraday was back in the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré by half past nine. The shop was still closed. He stood on the pavement
for a moment or two, wondering what to do. Keeping obs outside a police station, he told himself, was an invitation to get
arrested. The French were picky about stuff like this. If he wanted to get close to Philippe Stern, he had to be patient.

He walked to the big traffic intersection at the end of the street, eyed the gleaming mass of parked scooters, then began
to browse the line of shops that led towards the Parc Monceau. High-class kitchen equipment. A
clinique vétérinaire.
A huge canvas in the window of an art gallery, an angry swirl of blacks and whites. He wandered on,
intrigued by the emptiness of his head. He didn’t feel angry any more, or even upset. Gabrielle had come and gone, taking
everything with her. All that was left were these few precious moments in the thin Parisian sunshine.

The park took him by surprise, appearing suddenly to his right, a frieze of winter trees beyond a wrought-iron fence at the
end of an avenue. The houses on either side of the avenue were grand, heavy security, shuttered windows, and a maid cleaning
the brass on one of the big front doors paused to watch him wander by.

In the park he settled peaceably on a bench, wishing he’d brought something for the marauding squirrels. There were joggers
doing circuits, and Faraday shut his eyes, waiting for the soft, steady
lap-lap
of their trainers on the wetness of the sandy path. There were young Asian women too, pushing prams. They looked Thai, and
Faraday had a brief vision of himself and Gabrielle on the bus in the mountains, the hot afternoon they’d first met. He could
remember exactly what she was wearing, every detail, and he remembered too the single ring she wore on her left hand. It was
thin, silver, delicate. Once they were living together she’d taken it off, and he never saw it again.

He tipped his head back, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his face. Could you ever really know another person? Could you
ever be sure about them? Be certain? Could you make a little parcel of yourself and hand it across for safe keeping? Or was
this single act of trust, so absolute, so reckless, bound to end in betrayal? He didn’t know, and the realisation that he
didn’t much care any more brought a smile to his lips. He’d once met a Buddhist monk on a ferry on the Mekong river who’d
talked of the lightness of being, of the mistake we make in looking for significance in a waste of emptiness. Maybe he was
right, he thought. Maybe that’s where this journey ends. Back in the mountains. Back on the bus. Back in the steamy heat of
the jungle.

The ambulance was at the Royal Trafalgar in minutes. Winter had sent the receptionist to find one of the hotel’s freebie towelling
robes, and the paramedics wheeled Mackenzie out through the lobby, wrapped in powder blue, still unconscious. Winter had phoned
Marie, and she drove up to meet him at the hospital. Early word from the resus crew at A & E indicated a stroke, a diagnosis
Marie found hard to accept. She was pale with shock.

‘He’s still in his forties, Paul. That doesn’t happen.’

Winter didn’t know what to believe. Half an hour earlier he’d been assuming some kind of heart attack, probably mild, probably
triggered by a night on the tiles and far too long in the sauna. Bazza had always attacked life, seizing it by the throat
and giving it a good shake, and
a mild heart attack would have been life’s way of answering back. A stroke, on the other hand, was something very different.
A stroke could empty your head. A stroke could put you in a wheelchair for the rest of your life. A stroke could turn you
into a serious dribbler.

Winter went across to the machine to fetch a coffee for Marie. He was fumbling for the right change when his mobile began
to peep. It was Lou Sadler. She was still waiting for an answer.

Winter glanced back at Marie. She was sitting in a puddle of sunshine beneath one of the big plate-glass windows, staring
into nowhere. Someone had to take charge of this thing, he told himself. Someone had to start making decisions.

‘Tomorrow, Lou. Twelve noon. Come to the hotel.’

By midday, the shop was still closed. Faraday had a beer in the brasserie next door then stepped back onto the street to make
the call. The beer had made him light-headed. It felt like a bird in his chest, an odd fluttering sensation, not unpleasant.
He was wondering what kind of bird it might be when the call finally answered. It was a male voice, slightly formal, clipped,
precise French. To Faraday it spoke of a world where people were expected to state their business. Who are you? What do you
want?

Faraday gave his name. He said he wanted to talk to Monsieur Philippe Stern.

‘
Un moment, s’il vous plaît.
’

Another voice, older, softer.

‘
Oui, monsieur?
’

Faraday stared at the phone. This wasn’t working out the way he’d anticipated. He stumbled in French, had trouble with the
simplest phrases, couldn’t work out what he wanted to say.

Stern seemed to understand. His English was heavily accented.

‘Come round,’ he said. ‘Come round and see me.’

He gave Faraday directions. He lived in an apartment block in the Rue Monceau. Number 14. On foot it was less than five minutes
away. Press the buzzer for Flat 8. It was on the top floor. How wise of Mr Faraday not to bother with a car.

Stern rang off.

Number 14 was a four-storey building next to a school. The shutters needed a coat of paint and there was a rain-soaked poster
for a Christmas organ recital on the shabby green doors. When Faraday crossed the street for a better view, he noticed the
eruption of flowers on one of the top-floor balconies.

The buzzer opened the door at once. Faraday stepped inside. A lift awaited him behind an old-fashioned grille. The grille
made a
clanking noise when he slid it back. Inside was a full-length mirror, gilt-framed. Faraday studied himself as the the lift
creaked upwards. He looked old, broken, used-up. There was a fleck of something yellow on the front of his shirt which smudged
when he tried to get it off. No matter, he thought.
Tant pis.

As the lift came to a halt on the fourth floor, he became aware of a tall figure waiting for him in the shadows. He slid the
doors open, robbed of any idea of what to do next. In his previous life this was the moment when he confronted the prime suspect.
There’d be a procedure, a form of words, the comfort of knowing that his job was nearly done. Now he could barely put one
foot in front of the other.

The face was ageless, maybe early fifties. He was wearing jeans and a collarless grey shirt. A couple of days’ stubble darkened
his chin. Firm handshake. Bewildering smile.

‘You are welcome. Please call me Marc.’

‘Marc?’

‘Come.’

Faraday followed him into the flat. The apartment was enormous, flooded with sunshine. An elderly man was sitting beside the
window, a copy of
Le Monde
folded on his lap. He was wearing a pair of baggy old corduroy trousers, and the heavy roll-neck sweater looked hand-knitted.
He had a bony indoor face, blotched with liver marks, and he badly needed a haircut.

‘My father, Philippe.’

The old man waved Faraday into the nearby armchair. There was a jug of coffee on the table between them and a couple of cups.

‘You like cakes? My son makes fine madeleines. Marc …?’

Marc disappeared into the adjoining room. Faraday heard the discreet clatter of plates. His sense of direction had deserted
him. Who was Marc? How come Philippe was so old? And why did they seem to be expecting him?

‘You are with Gabrielle? No?’

‘No.’ Faraday shook his head. ‘I’m here alone. By myself.’

‘I mean …
donc …
in life. You and Gabrielle are together,
n’est-ce pas?
’

Absurd, Faraday thought. A film script. Surreal. He needed to get his bearings. He needed to play the copper again. Just one
more time. He needed to
find out.

‘You know Gabrielle?’

‘Of course.’

‘How come?’

‘Because she’s a friend, a family friend.’ He smiled, benign. ‘
Notre
petite.
The little Gabrielle who so enchanted us. My other son, especially.’

‘Not Marc?’

‘
Pas du tout.
’ A wistful smile. ‘Benoît.’

‘They were …?’

‘
Très proches
.’ He nodded. ‘In love. Always. Gabrielle
et
Benoît.
Presque mariés
.’

‘When?’

‘Many years ago.’ He shaded his eyes with his hand, looking for his other son. ‘
Benoît … quand est-il mort?
’

‘
Il y a quinze ans, papa
.’

Benoît died fifteen years ago. He’d been engaged to Gabrielle. Faraday didn’t know what to say. He felt like a trespasser.

‘I’m sorry,’ he managed at last. ‘I shouldn’t be here.’

‘You are welcome. Please …’ Stern waved a frail hand at the plate of madeleines and insisted Faraday help himself. ‘You’ve
seen the little one? The little girl?’

‘Of course.’

‘And how is she?’

‘Tiny.
Un petit bout de chou
.’ A scrap of a child. Faraday managed a smile. His French was coming back.

‘We were pleased to help.’ The old man nodded. ‘For me it was an honour.’

‘Help?’ Faraday was lost again.

‘Of course. With the money. Gabrielle phoned me from Egypt. You were there. You were there with her in the hospital.’ He touched
his own head, a gesture of sympathy, then reached forward and patted Faraday on the knee. ‘She worries about you …
notre petite
.’

‘She does?’

‘Very much. You know that I’m Jewish? Did she tell you that?’

‘No. She told me nothing. Nothing about Benoît. Nothing about you.’

‘
Vraiment?
’ He smiled. He seemed to approve. Life today, he said, was full of confessions. People wanted to share all of themselves.
It had become a kind of disease. Here in France. Maybe in England too. But Gabrielle, it seemed, had resisted the infection.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Very good.’

‘So she phoned you from Egypt …?’

‘
Oui.
She wanted money for the little one. I knew about these children. I knew about Gaza. It was everywhere, on the television,
in the papers.
Atroce, n’est-ce pas?
’