Cupid's Arrow (23 page)

I hope this helps! Let me know how you go with your assignment. DH.

I stared at the email for an instant, my heart pounding. Laurence ... Ferrier... Laurence Laurie, Laurie ... cousin of a criminal, whose gang used to meet at the Hotel du Lys! I hit Reply and typed frantically,

Thanks so much for this, it's really helpful. One last thing. Do you know what happened to Laurence Ferrier? Where did he go after he was released? Please reply ASAP. Thanks again, Caroline.

I hit Send, scrambled up from my chair, and raced off to get Remy and Christine. One look at my face told them something important had happened.

'It's him! I knew it! It's Laurie!' I gabbled. 'Come quickly, have a look!'

We all crowded around the computer. Christine read the email out loud. She finished by saying, 'Caroline? Who's Caroline?'

'My pen-name,' I said impatiently. What did that matter, for heaven's sake?

'Bright girl. More to you than meets the eye, I knew that,' said Christine, smiling. 'But listen, what makes you think this person – this Dreaming Holmes or whatever – knows what they're talking about? Remy told me you'd had difficulty finding out anything about it on the web.'

'Dreaming Holmes used to be a police officer. I just think it's been hidden officially, to protect Remy and his mum. So Laurence Ferrier wouldn't find them and kill them too.'

She nodded. 'And you think this Laurie person – that dreadful Yank, never liked him, I must say – that's Laurence Ferrier?'

'Sounds like it might be, don't you think?'

'Could be. But why would Laurie want to kill them, now after all this time? Surely not still for revenge?'

'Because Maman recognised him,' said Remy, speaking at last, his golden eyes still fixed on the screen, as if imprinting every word in his memory.

'Yes,' I said, slowly, horror-struck, remembering that terrible scene at the door of
Bellerive Manor,
when Valerie Gomert had come raging like a lioness to tear me apart in front of everyone, because of that piece of paper she'd found in the dream book. The piece torn from a shampoo bottle or drinks coaster or whatever, with the name of the Hotel du Lys on it. 'She came to scream at me,' I whispered, 'and then she caught sight of someone standing in the hall. Laurie, the "film producer", who'd appeared out of nowhere. Who was nosing around Raymond's place, looking for –'

'Yes. Looking for the thing that must incriminate him. The thing he must have looked for, earlier. The thing he must have killed Raymond for,' said Remy, very low.

'He must have been suspicious of Laurie, somehow. Raymond, I mean,' I said, as a pattern took shape in my brain. 'I mean, Oscar said that Laurie had contacted Raymond some time ago, didn't he?' I looked at Christine for support. She nodded, gravely. Gone was all trace of laughter or mischief from her face. Her eyes were very bright, and there were two red spots in her pale cheeks. 'Yes. He must have worked it out, somehow.'

'He must have found that paper. The one from the Hotel du Lys. He must have employed that PI to look into it,' I said. 'That's why he was killed, too. But still Laurie didn't find the paper. And then, on that day, Valerie came to the door, and she saw him –'

'And he saw her,'
said Remy, drawing a hard breath. 'He saw her. And he must have come after her. That night. After I'd gone. After I'd slammed out of the door like a selfish idiot, leaving her there to face ... to face –' He crumpled on to the chair. 'Oh my God, I left her there on her own –'

'How could you know? How could you know, Remy?' I had my arms around him. 'You can't blame yourself. You can't. Besides, he'd probably have killed you too, if you'd been there ...'

'Fleur's right,' said Christine sharply. 'No question, guy like that wouldn't hesitate. Take it from me. Question is, though, why didn't your mother run away before he got there? She could have done. Why didn't she?'

Remy shrugged. 'I don't know. I suppose she wanted to have it out with him. Or maybe she was too scared. I don't know.'

'Or maybe she thought he'd forget it,' I said. 'That he wouldn't risk it. That he'd run away.'

'Maybe you're right,' said Christine. 'But I don't suppose we'll ever know for sure.'

'What are we going to do now?' said Remy quietly. 'We don't know where Laurie is, or how to find him. Perhaps we should call the police now and tell them what we know. What do you think, Christine?'

He was asking
her
first now, I thought, stung a little. Before she had a chance to reply, I rushed in, 'I think we still need to find out more. We need to wait for what Dreaming Holmes tells us.' I looked at my watch. 'Anyone know what the time difference is, between France and Canada?'

'About six hours or so I think,' said Christine vaguely. 'But we'd better check that. That means your friend will probably answer sometime in the night. I'm not sure though that I think it's a great idea to wait, myself. Anything could happen.'

'What?' I said. 'We're here, safely. Laurie doesn't know we know about him. So what could happen?'

Famous last bloody words, a damned fool rushing in where angels fear to tread or whatever the saying is. I can still hear myself saying those words, so brash and confident and stupid and naive, and I hate myself for them, I wish, how I wish with all my heart that I could take them back ...

The afternoon wore on, and still there was no reply from Dreaming Holmes. By some kind of unspoken understanding, we decided to put everything aside for the moment, ignoring the TV, the radio, and even any discussion that might remind us that Remy was a fugitive wanted by the police and I was thought to be in grave danger from him. Hand in hand, Remy and I took a walk with Christine in the garden and she burbled on and on about her plants and her rockeries, stopping every now and then to dead-head a rose, or rearrange a rock that had slipped out of place. I've never been interested in gardening – do you know any teenager who is? – and I didn't really listen to her chatter but it was kind of comforting to have it wash over us, a flow of normality in a wilderness of chaos, weirdness and fear. She showed us her back garden, too, where her garden wall butted onto the beginning of the Fairy Rock woods. There was a door set into the wall and as she opened it and we went through to look at what lay beyond, I was suddenly filled with a feeling of familiarity. It was like the door in my good dream, except that it wasn't at the top of a hill. I told Remy and Christine about it, even though I thought down-to-earth Christine would probably smile and think it was fancy. But she didn't. She said that she was glad it was a good dream because it would trouble her if anything about her lovely place featured in anyone's nightmare. I said, 'How could it, this is such a beautiful, peaceful spot', and she sighed and said, 'I'm glad you feel that, I feel that too, I wish Oscar did. He has a ridiculous attachment to Bellerive. I mean, it's not as though it was in the family for a long time, the old man only bought it twenty years ago or so, when his books started to make real money. Before that, he lived in Paris.'

She told us a bit about the Dulacs then, and how Oscar had been orphaned in his mid-teens and his uncle had taken him in, reluctantly, she said. Oscar had gone to Canada to try to make his fortune, to impress Raymond, and had got into the stockmarket somehow, but though he made money, it still didn't impress his uncle. 'And the old man let him know it,' she said, 'he really did.'

I could see from the expression on Remy's face that he was uncomfortable with this kind of talk about Raymond – and so I turned the conversation quickly away by exclaiming over a bed of flowers. She was easily diverted and the awkward moment passed.

We went inside again. Christine brought out a pack of cards and we played a few hands of poker. Then she said she was going to throw some dinner together and it would be at least an hour before we ate. She refused our help, said we should just relax. We went back to the computer and checked the mail but there was still nothing. I was rather tempted to check the news on Google, but Remy was there next to me and I could tell that he was almost at the limit of his endurance and couldn't face the thought of being plunged into his real situation once more. So instead we went to Christine's living room, found a DVD of
Fawlty Towers
on her shelves and put that on.

It might seem odd to you but I really did forget about our troubles as we sat on the sofa together, snuggled into each other, and shook with laughter over the crazy antics of Basil and Manuel and co. I think Remy was taken out of himself too. Unlike me – my mum is mad keen on John Cleese and has every show he's been in – he hadn't come across
Fawlty Towers
before but he soon got the gist. Time passed quickly and happily then and I was kind of sorry when Christine poked her head around the door and said, 'Dinner's ready'.

I have to say though that I was pretty hungry by now. I got stuck into the spaghetti with meat sauce she'd made, and salad, and then there was ice-cream and fruit to follow. I was kind of surprised such a simple meal had taken her so long to make but she told us she wasn't a natural cook and had to follow recipes for even the smallest thing. 'And to be like that in France, it's a bit of a handicap,' she said, smiling, as she swirled her spaghetti on her fork. 'Everyone thinks so much of food, Oscar included, and you're not allowed to say you really couldn't be bothered.'

I couldn't really understand that – I mean, I love food and I quite like cooking too. Still, I could see what she meant, about France. People really care about food. Anyone who doesn't is bound to be thought of as a weirdo.

While we ate, Christine asked me questions about Australia. She seemed interested. She said that once she'd thought of going to Australia, that it sounded like a great place. I told her it was, and as I talked about it, I felt this pang of homesickness, something I hadn't really felt since we'd arrived.

She didn't ask Remy about Canada. She'd probably heard enough about that from Oscar. Remy sat and listened to us in silence, picking at his food and sipping at his drink. He didn't seem hungry or thirsty. He looked tired. He wasn't the only one. Patou was already asleep in a laundry basket Christine had lined with a blanket.

So I wasn't surprised when, just after dessert, Remy got up and said he was very sorry, but he'd have to go to bed. Christine had already shown us the rooms where she said we could sleep – separate ones, of course – and so he kissed me goodnight, softly, on the lips, and Christine on the cheek. He said, 'I'll leave Patou here – I don't have the heart to wake her. Is that okay?'

'Of course,' said Christine.

He gave us both a ghost of a smile, and left the room. Moments later we heard his footsteps going wearily up the stairs.

Christine turned to me and said, 'He seems so nice. It is such a pity. Such a very great pity.'

'Yes,' I said, feeling a lump coming into my throat. 'It is just so terrible what's happened. So unfair. Why did that guy Laurie have to come to Bellerive and see Remy's mother?'

'Fate, I suppose,' she said. 'Bad luck.'

'Do you really think so? Do you really think he didn't know?'

'If he had, I am sure he would have got to her earlier,' she said gravely.

I shivered. 'I suppose that's right.' We were silent an instant, then I said, 'Do you think he really was a film producer, then?'

'I expect so,' she said. 'There's no reason Laurence Ferrier couldn't have grown up and become just about anything.'

I nodded. 'I suppose he might even have gone to the US, so Laurie wasn't lying when he said he was American.'

'Yep.' But her voice was a little vague. I could see she was losing interest in the conversation. I said in a rush, 'I really want to thank you for everything you've done for us today. It's been just great. You're just great. Not many adults would believe us, and trust us.'

'More fool them,' she said, turning her attention back to me. 'And you don't need to thank me. I know you're telling the truth. It's as simple as that.'

'Christine – do you think I should call Mum now?' I felt rather guilty about the fact that I'd hardly thought of her all afternoon. I should have called her earlier.

She shrugged. 'Up to you. You could leave it till the morning if you like, though. Or I could call for you.'

'Oh, no. It's okay. I'll do it. But tomorrow morning. Yes.'

She smiled at me. 'Fine. Now then, Miss, would you fancy a cup of coffee?'

She made us coffee, which we drank companionably, talking of this and that, and then I helped her stack the dishwasher. I looked in on the computer – still nothing – and then we went back to the living room and watched a little more
Fawlty Towers.
But I was suddenly feeling really, really tired too and so I made my excuses and went upstairs. As I went past Remy's door, I thought of knocking and going in to see him, but there was no sound coming from there. Remembering his weary face at dinnertime, I thought he must already be asleep. I wouldn't disturb him.

Christine had laid out a pretty cotton nightie for me to wear, which fitted pretty well. My bed was soft and comfortable, the pillow like a cloud, and I was fast asleep almost as soon as I clambered in between the sheets.

I woke very suddenly, from a really horrible nightmare. Not the usual one, of running through the forest. There was no movement in this one, no action. In the nightmare I was standing in a strange, empty place, under a heavy cloudy sky. I was looking up. I could not take my eyes from the sky. It was all grey, but in the corner, a light was growing. It was the strangest light ever. Yellow at first and then orange then red, getting redder and redder. Then I saw a shape, lifting up from the clouds: an upright figure red as blood, with a grinning, evil face, horns and a tail, holding a thing that looked like a fork, or a trident. In the dream, I knew it was the Devil, as he appeared in the tarot. The red figure of the Devil rose and rose till it got bigger and bigger and the whole place was filled with that unearthly, bloody light and my heart seemed to turn to stone inside of me and I...

That's when I woke. As soon as my heart stopped hammering and my eyes began to focus, I knew there was something wrong. Something not only wrong, but terrible.
There was a strange red light in my room.
For an instant, stunned by horror, I thought I must still be in the dream, or having one of those lucid ones where you know you're dreaming. I closed my eyes. I opened them. The red light still bathed the room.

I was so frightened I could hardly feel myself breathing. But I levered myself up, very quietly, and I looked at the windows and it was then I remembered I'd forgotten to close the shutters, in my tiredness. The light was coming from there. Through the windows. From outside.

I nearly just got back down in the bed and pulled the covers over my head. I would've thought that's what I might do, if I'd ever stopped to think what I might do if I was really, really scared. I've always thought I was a bit of a chicken. But until you've been in that place, you just don't know how you're going to react. And so, as if in a dream, I saw myself getting up, reaching for my jumper to pull over my nightie, and padding over in my bare feet to the window, prickles of cold all over my body.

I really thought I was going to see the Devil in the corner of the sky, grinning evilly down at me, waiting for my heart to turn to stone. But what I actually saw, once my eyes had accepted the fact that I wasn't in a dream and that I was really seeing what I was seeing, was that the red light came from the moon. The moon was full, enormous, low in the sky. And instead of being its usual silvery-white, it was a kind of red-gold. And in the light it cast the back garden looked unearthly and menacing.

I stood there for an instant, frozen to the spot. Then I told myself that though Mum and people who really believed in woo-woo stuff would say it was a blood moon, a portent of evil, it was all perfectly explainable, just a natural phenomenon, rare, sure, but still real, a bit of the sun's light refracted back over the curve of the earth or something so the moon took on that glow. But just as I managed to persuade my skittering heart to calm down and stop making a fuss, a fox barked, the weird sound piercing the stillness. All my hair stood up on end. I cried out. I couldn't help it. As I did so, I caught a flicker of movement in the very back of the back garden, and then, very briefly, the outline of a figure, wearing what looked like a hooded jacket. Someone was out there. Someone was watching the house!

I stood there for what seemed like an age but was actually probably less than a second. Then I moved. I raced out of my room and down the corridor, shouting, yelling, screaming. As I reached the stairs, Christine burst out of her room, clutching her dressing-gown around her.

'What the hell's the matter!' she yelled. 'What on earth are you doing?'

'There's someone out there. It's him. I'm sure it's him.' I was babbling, stammering, sobbing.

'What are you talking about?' She didn't have her contact lenses on and her eyes didn't sparkle as much as usual.

'An intruder. Laurie. He's out there. He's tracked us down.'

'Don't be silly. How?'

'I saw him, I tell you! I'm sure it was him. He was in the back garden.'

She looked at my tear-streaked face, my wild eyes. 'Hang on. Let's have a look.'

'We should ring the police.'

'Not for a false alarm,' she said briskly. She disappeared into her room. Instants later she was out again, scrambled into jeans and a jumper, and casually carrying something that made my eyes open wide. A handgun.

She shrugged at the expression on my face. 'Don't worry. It's licensed. It was my father's. He taught me to shoot. If we really have an intruder here, then it's as well I've got it, don't you think?'

I swallowed. 'I–I suppose so.'

'But I couldn't see anyone out there, from my window,' she continued. 'Are you sure it wasn't the light, playing tricks with your eyes?'

I shook my head.

'Okay. Stay here. Lock yourself in your room, if you like. I'll go and check. Okay?'

'But you –?'

'Don't worry about me. I can look after myself.' She flashed me a smile, and was gone.

It was only as she vanished down the stairs that the obvious thing came to my head. Why hadn't Remy come out of his room? I'd made a big enough commotion. But he hadn't come out. Terror seized me by the throat. I ran to his door, hammered on it. 'Remy! Remy!' No answer. I tried the door. It wasn't locked. I turned the handle and burst into the room.

The windows were wide open. The room was full of red light. The bedclothes were scattered all over the floor. And Remy was gone.