Deceit (12 page)

When I protest, “She is still alive! Have pity! Why does no one help her?” and clutch at his arm, he turns on me. A stream of invective issues from his mouth. I do not understand his words… but I understand his tone well enough.

Christophe pulls me away. “Margrat…
laisse cela tranquille!
Leave it be! We must not draw attention to ourselves like this.” He exchanges a few words with the sweeper, then turns to me. “He says that the coach bears the shield of Robert Benoit, who has a grand house here. A foreigner, but well connected and quite above the common law. There will be no justice for this woman and there is nothing you can do about it. Come… you must think of Jeanne and how we can keep her safe.” He is right, but the sight of that poor woman so wickedly run down will not fade… and nor should it.

It is late in the afternoon when we reach the theatre in the l’Hôtel de Bourgogne, which is a very tall narrow building on the Rue Étienne Marcel. We enter under a gallery of boxes where the wealthy people will soon be sitting, comfortably separated from the rabble standing in the ‘pit’ below. There are benches too at the side and back of the pit, but I am sure you need to pay more money to sit there.

Two enormous candle branches, hanging on thick ropes from the ceiling, light the theatre. At the far end, broad steps lead up to the stage and at each side of it, men sitting on little gilt chairs hold violins in their hands. Some are tuning them, making a noise that makes me think of a squealing hinge on a garden gate. Others are playing a little pretty piece of music that causes me to tap my feet in time to it. On stage, men are running about and great painted canvasses are being lowered down by pulley and rope.

A thrill of excitement and expectation is in the air and ripples through me too. I, Margrat, am in Paris, where I never thought to be in my life. My baby is safely born and I have Christophe beside me, whom I trust with my life. And there
has been no sign yet of plague in Paris, or any whisper that he is near. It seems an eternity ago that the fortune teller at the Frost Fair read my palm and said she could see nothing but blackness. How wrong she was… for my life now is not so very black after all.

Christophe leaves me while he goes to look for Luc and I have just sat down on one of the benches and begun to feed Jeanne when a great clattering and banging makes her start and let out a little cry.

Two women are carrying a trestle table into the back of the theatre. They set it up and cover it with a damask cloth. Then they fetch glasses and plates of tarts and cakes and savouries. The smell of them reminds me I have not eaten since early morning.

Last to be brought in are two great candelabra. Carrying one of them is a young woman, her hair tied up in a scarf like an Egyptian. A few glossy curls have escaped the scarf and shine bright as they catch the candlelight. And, as she turns to place the candelabra down on the trestle, I can see she has a baby strapped to her back with a piece of broad, brightly patterned cloth.

Perhaps she can feel me watching her, because
she looks across to where I am sitting. I see her quietly slip a cake from its plate and then she walks over to me. I shift sideways on the bench so she can sit down.

She reaches out a hand to stroke Jeanne’s head and then she holds out the cake, which I gratefully take, and she says, “
Le petit… quel âge a-t’il?
” And when I hesitate, she tries, “
Quanti anni ha?
” And finally, in broken English, “How many years has he?”

But before I can answer Christophe has returned with Luc… who bends down to the young woman and kisses her full on the lips! “
Mon mari! Je suis Annie
,” she says, laughing at my shocked face. This is Luc’s wife then. “
Et Tomas!
” She reaches behind her shoulder and strokes her baby’s head.

And so begins this next part of our lives. We have taken lodgings, a single tiny attic room, outside of the city walls and not far from Annie and Luc, where it is cheaper and we can be anonymous.

Christophe helps out at the theatre with the scenery. He has no fear of heights and when a rope sticks fast in a pulley, he happily climbs up to free
it. I help Annie selling lemonade and raspberry water and cedar bitters.

Every day is spent at the theatre and while Annie and I work, our babies strapped safely close to our bodies, we talk, like sisters, just as Martha and I once did. She asks, in her broken English, a great many questions and I find myself unwittingly telling her about Nicholas Robert Benedict and how he hoped to force me into marriage.

I tell her how I met with Christophe and how he has saved me from Nicholas. I chatter on about our escape from England and the birth of Jeanne.

But caution is not all thrown to the wind. I am not that foolish. I do not say a word about the spells or where I have buried the Emerald Casket. And though she remarks on our rings, I say Christophe had an identical one made and gave it to me as a love token. And once the words pass my lips they become true. It is as if we are living, Christophe, Jeanne and I, protected inside a bright bubble of make-believe, which has become our reality.

Then, one morning in early summer, I am about to enter the theatre when I see a man pasting
a bill post outside on the theatre wall. I glance at it as I pass and then I stop in my tracks and stand stock-still in shock. My likeness is on the bill post with a description beneath it.

I can read a little of it…
les cheveux rousses
. Red hair. A great deal of money is mentioned, which I guess to be a reward for information. And there is an address… a house on the Rue de Montmorency. And a name leaps out…
Robert
Benoit… it is one coincidence too many.

A dark suspicion begins to grow. Nicholas Robert Benedict…
Robert
Benoit. Benoit sounds too much like Benedict for comfort. It was Robert Benoit’s carriage which rolled over and killed that poor woman in the Place Royale? I know that Nicholas has visited the city, but I never heard him speak of a house here. But then what do I really know of him?

I wait for the man to depart with his pail and brush and I carefully peel the bill post from the wall and fold it in half, paste side inwards. I need to take it to show Christophe. But I know one thing for sure: we are no longer safe, and I know now that we never shall be.

W
hatever wonderful plans she and Lindsay might concoct, there was nothing they could do until Claire heard from Robert. And that was the problem. How could he contact her? The police knew who the kidnapper was now. His photofit had been on the news. Now his ‘face’ was plastered across all the newspapers. It sort of looked like him, except it was flat.
One-dimensional
. And it couldn’t convey the essence of him. The intensity. The magnetism.

Journalists were trying to grub up any little details they could about him. And coming up with very little. Not even a photograph. And of course they were totally ignorant of his past life as Nicholas Benedict.

The public responded with the usual sightings in weird places. A couple of wealthy Egyptian
collectors were known to have had dealings with him. But they clammed up when the question of money changing hands was raised. No one had any idea where he came from, or where he had gone.

Clearly he was in hiding. And he wasn’t going to risk coming out. Besides, what would be the point? He couldn’t contact Claire in public, because wherever she went now, there was Dan close on her heels. And they
were
monitoring her mobile calls and noting anything suspicious – calls to and from
anyone
not on the police ‘okay’ list. So calls to Lindsay were unremarkable, but a call from an unknown number would set the alarm bells ringing.

Besides, as far as she knew, he didn’t have her mobile number. He had never called her on the phone before. “I wouldn’t worry about that. If he wants your number he’ll get hold of it,” Lindsay had said. “I keep my personal phone number private. Just a few special people.” She gave my arm a little squeeze. “But I still get cold callers.”

And she was right, because later, Claire’s phone went. It looked like a text from one of those annoying business numbers and
usually
she’d have
deleted it without even reading it. In fact, she was about to when something made her stop. What if it was from him?

Sekhmet! This
had
to be a message from Robert. She texted the number and waited. An answering text came seconds later:

She would have to collect it in person. That might be difficult. She’d be tailed. Dan would be watching. If he saw that she had a new phone,
he’d demand the number. He mustn’t know about it.

She rang Lindsay who said, “Look, here’s what we’ll do. I’ll come over and we’ll say we’re going shopping. So what if that sounds a bit insensitive given what’s happening? Say it’s a birthday present for your best friend… what’s her name… Jade? And then if your minder insists on coming with us I’ll distract him. Works every time. Most men are suckers for a bit of female attention. He won’t know what’s hit him.”

So that was how on Sunday lunchtime Lindsay and Claire came to be in the High Street, looking in a window a couple of shops down from Phone2U.

Dan had his back to the glass and was watching the street. Claire was asking, “Do you like it?” and Lindsay was replying in a very soft low voice, “Not for me, too glitzy, but Jade would, right? What do you think, Dan?”

Dan was struggling to hear what she was saying and was leaning in towards her and so he didn’t see the bike coming or the hooded figure who reached across, snatched Lindsay’s bag from her shoulder and sped off.

“Hey!” Dan reacted… forgot Lindsay and Claire and chased after the bike threading through the crowds.

But while Claire stood, mouth gaping in shock, Lindsay calmly turned to her, saying, “Claire, come on. Be quick!”

It took a second for Claire to realise that the bag snatch must have been part of Lindsay’s plan. Then she shot off and within seconds was inside the phone shop, explaining who she was.

“Oh yeah. Cool. The phone’s already set up and charged as requested,” the young man behind the counter said. “Just sign your name here and you’re ready to go, okay?”

Claire signed and slipped the phone into her backpack. She just made it back to Lindsay as Dan was returning.

“Bastard,” he muttered under his breath, looking cross that he hadn’t been able to catch the thief. “Sorry about your bag. I’ve rung it in and you’ll get a crime number. You never know. It might turn up. God, I’ll never live this down now. They’ll be making jokes about it for weeks at the station.”

Back at the house, while Dan was in the kitchen explaining to Claire’s mum about the bag snatch, Claire whispered to Lindsay, “You
did
organise that, right?”

Lindsay smiled. “Of course! It’s something I’ve learned from my father. Money talks. There isn’t anything you can’t buy.” Claire blinked… looked at Lindsay as if she were seeing her for the first time. And how could she have learned anything from her father when she’d never met him, didn’t even know his name?

“What are you two whispering about?” Claire’s dad appeared out of the living room looking ruffled but hopeful – he’d obviously just woken up. He went straight to slip an arm around Lindsay’s waist and pull her in close, but checked himself when he saw that Claire’s mum and Dan were in the next room. “There isn’t any news is there? I’ve been asleep. Have the police got any new leads?”

“No. We were talking about Jade’s birthday present that’s all. And I know it seems a bit rubbish to be talking about birthdays when Micky’s…” Claire’s voice trailed off. She suddenly felt really bad. With all the drama and excitement of fooling Dan and getting the phone, she’d
actually forgotten
why
she’d gone for it in the first place. How terrible was that?

“Oh and I had my bag snatched by some loser on a bike,” Lindsey chipped in. Claire could see that she was trying to steer the action away, give Claire space to go to her room and check out the phone.

“Jesus! Are you all right? He didn’t hurt you did he?”

Lindsay took her dad’s arm and started to move him towards the kitchen. “No I’m fine. But my keys have gone and my cards. Will you be able to give me a lift home? And can I have my spare key back from you?”

She looked over her shoulder at Claire and gave a little jerk of her head towards the stairs.

There was a video message waiting on the phone, with a horrifying clip of Micky. Her hair hanging down over her face in rats’ tails and her face swollen and blotchy with crying. She was desperately trying to say something. Claire could see her mouth moving… stretched wide as if she were saying cheese… then dropping slack. But she couldn’t make out what it was.

Then Robert’s voice, soft and menacing, “She is safe for now, Claire, but you need to be quick. Tomorrow… Monday… 10 a.m. Take the tube to Tower Hill. Call me when you are there and I will give you further instructions. Be on your own. Make sure you lose Dan. From what I have heard that will not be too hard.”

Then the video stopped. From what he’d
heard
? And how did he know Dan’s name? Was he watching them somehow after all? But he didn’t know as much as he thought he did. He couldn’t know Lindsay had set it up and was helping her.

Claire ran downstairs and into the kitchen and as soon as she could, whispered to Lindsay, “I’ve heard from him…”

Monday, and Claire had promised she would be back at school. Only six weeks until her first exam. What a joke. She hadn’t done a shred of revision.

“You must go,” Lindsay had said. “Be seen to be there and
then
sneak out.”

“But what about Dan?” Claire couldn’t see any way of shaking him off. Not now.

“The toilets at school… are there any on the ground floor and with windows you could get
out of? And what time’s assembly? Okay, well just between registration and assembly say you need the loo… time of the month… period pains. Lay it on a bit. If Dan’s doing his job he’ll follow, but he won’t go inside. And take some money with you. Bribe someone to tell Dan you’re still in there and it’s going to be a while. Then climb out of the window and I’ll be waiting at the school gates and I’ll take you to the tube station.”

Claire sat next to Dan in the car on the way to school. He was trying to make conversation. Talking about everything they were doing to track Robert down. They’d got lucky and had some really valuable extra help and information. Now it was only a matter of time.

“Yeah, well, Micky can’t wait. And whatever extra help you’re getting isn’t good enough. He’s wicked and clever. And you don’t even
really
know what he looks like do you? Or…” She’d been about to say, “
Or what his real name is
,” but had bitten her tongue.
Shut up
, she told herself.
Don’t give anything away
.

Going into school she’d walked quickly in front of Dan, but she could feel him close behind her,
shadowing her steps. Everyone was looking at her. And him. The girls probably thinking he was fit and the boys thinking he looked cool… in spite of the fact they could probably smell he was a cop from miles away.

He’d stood at the back of the class during registration and then followed her down the corridor to the hall. When she veered off towards the toilets he’d called after her, “Claire, where are you going?” And she’d pulled a packet of tampons out of her bag and waved it at him. But he stayed cool, his face impassive. “I’ll be waiting outside…”

“Long wait then, Dan,” she said under her breath.

The loos were rammed. Girls redoing make-up and hair. The window already open wide. Jenna Bailey was leaning out having a smoke.

“’Scuse.” Claire pushed in. For a minute she thought there’d be trouble. Jenna was holding her cigarette, lit end, towards Claire. “Look, got to ditch the cop who’s waiting outside. Here…” She took out a tenner from her jeans pocket. “Tell him I’m bent double on the toilet. Period pains. Oh and give us a leg up out of the window.”

It was even more of a squeeze than the window
at Darke House, even with Jenna helping. Shame she hadn’t put out the cigarette first.

Lindsay was waiting, the car engine running, looking cool and untroubled. Her dark glasses, usually pushed up onto her head, were shielding her eyes. Claire dropped her bag into the footwell and put on her seatbelt.

“What happened to your hand?” Lindsay asked as she pulled away from the kerb.

“Ciggie burn.”

“You could breathe on it. Let the blue dust make it better.” Lindsay’s eyes seemed fixed on the road ahead.

“No. Might need every bit I’ve got. Can’t waste it on stupid stuff. Besides, when it’s all over the burn will be a reminder.”

“Are you sure you want to…?”

“Sure.”

“Supposing…?”

The question hung unanswered between them. There was silence as Lindsay drove, stop start, stop start, through the slow-moving traffic to the tube station. The ring was really hurting Claire now, much more than the burn.

She tried to block the pain out by going over and over in her head what would happen when she saw Robert again. Knowing that things hardly
ever
pan out how you expect. And what did
Lindsay
get out of all this? How would she feel if things went wrong? If something happened to Micky and to Claire. Wouldn’t she feel responsible? Would she confess she’d helped?
I wouldn’t confess if I were her
, Claire thought, because that would, for sure, be the end of her relationship with her dad.

And there was that niggling feeling of discomfort creeping in again. Lindsay shouldn’t be lying to her dad. It wasn’t right. Claire knew that from her own painful experience. She hadn’t told Joe the truth about anything and now he didn’t want to see her… or speak to her even.

He’d left her a voicemail… his voice had sounded strained and distant. He’d said, “
Please don’t contact me again, okay?
” And when she’d tried to ring him back, he’d blocked her number. That hurt like hell.

But oddly Claire felt that he’d done the right thing. You ought to be able to trust the people you loved and who said they loved you. And Claire hadn’t fully trusted him had she? She’d told
Lindsay more than she’d ever told Joe. Claire sneaked a sideways look at her.

“Nice earrings, they’re really unusual…”
And they seem really familiar
, Claire thought. They were small, expensive-looking diamond studs.

“Thanks. They’re my favourites and I lost one.” Claire felt her heart miss a beat. The diamond stud she’d found in Robert’s study?
Don’t be silly. Don’t be silly. Lindsay is your dad’s girlfriend. You’ve known her for over two years
. “Isn’t it annoying when that happens? I had to get a jeweller to make me a replacement. It cost a bomb.”

Claire tried to keep her voice level as she asked, “Do you know where you lost it?”

“Not a clue and I can’t even remember when it was now. Quite a while back though.”

Lindsay was able to pull up outside the tube station. Claire leaned across to give her a hug and got her hair so caught up in the hinge of Lindsay’s dark glasses, she pulled them right off.

“Jeez… what happened?” Though make-up cleverly disguised it, Lindsay clearly had a black eye. A real shiner.

“Slipped in the shower and cracked my head
against the soap dish. Nothing to worry about. You go. Hurry or you’ll be late.”

Lindsay seemed edgy and quickly pushed her glasses back on, but she leaned over as Claire got out of the car and said, “Send me a text when you can, so I’ll know exactly where you are.”

Claire went slowly down the steps to the underground, her thoughts distracted. She couldn’t stop thinking now about the earring she’d found in Robert’s study and the one Lindsay had lost. How stupid was that? Because there was no way Lindsay could have been in Robert’s house. She’d never met him and, even if she had, through work say, or if she’d bought something from him, she’d have seen his photofit and said something wouldn’t she?