Falloir (Passion Noire Book 2) (31 page)

The difference in him, now he’s awake, is mind-blowing. He’s still yellow and thin but he’s lost the edge of his frailness. He’s sitting up, resting against a pile of pillows but it’s those eyes that matter. He pins me with them and I feel the force of them ... of him ... of the man he was. He’s polite when Helene does the formal introduction but he remains aloof and detached, even when Helene gushes on about how I’m the hero of the hour. He thanks me and then sends her down to make coffee. The implication is clear—she’s not invited into our little chat. I could be wrong but I get the feeling that he was expecting this.

‘I’m sorry to turn up like this unannounced but I wanted to ask you about the arrangements to keep Veuve safe. I hear that bastard’s been released on parole.’

His face is completely impassive, like he’s wearing a silicone mask. He says and does nothing to confirm he’s heard me but I know he has.

‘I wanted to ask whether you think he’s still a risk to her and, if so, whether arrangements are still in place to take care of him. There’s also the issue of her safety in the long term.’

‘After I’m gone, you mean,’ he says as his eyes bore into mine.

There’s no point beating about the bush. ‘Yes.’

‘So you’ve been doing a bit of detective work?’

I shrug. ‘I know he’s on parole. That’s only because Helene had warned Veuve that she knew he was coming up for release and, with your situation, she wanted Veuve to take precautions.’

‘Well-connected, are we?’ he asks. I’m not sure whether he’s impressed or scornful that I know so much. He’s a difficult man to read.

‘I have a couple of friends in useful places.’

He nods. ‘I don’t know how much of a risk he still is. But, after being banged up repeatedly, I can well imagine that he has an axe to grind. And that bastard has had nothing but time on his hands. Time to dream up revenge. As far as I’m aware, he has no idea that I’m behind it—I could be wrong, but I doubt it. The only link he has is Veuve. The only face to blame for his incarceration. I wouldn’t worry. I’ll have him back inside within days. That’s the good thing about repeat offenders, they get thrown back as soon as they put a toe out of line. I’ll sort it today. Now, what else is on your mind?’

He catches me by surprise. I have to hand it to him, even when he’s being eaten alive by cancer, his mind is still as sharp as a cutthroat razor.

‘From what Veuve has told me—and that’s very limited—I have a feeling you may be able to help me, should you feel so inclined. She tells me that she’s already asked for your assistance with a guy she wants to track down but it was right before you fell ill. I’ll gladly help her but I’m drawing a blank. I’m hoping your connections are better than mine.’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ he says. ‘Veuve has not asked for help with anything.’

I wonder whether he truly has no recollection—Veuve said it was the day before he was ill, after all. I have my suspicions but I can’t be sure.

‘Thanks for all your help with my sister. I didn’t think she had it in her. She’s more brainwashed than I thought. That religion’s nothing more than a bloody cult.’

I think he’s embarrassed so I tell him to think nothing of it but I suspect he’s cutting me off. That’s confirmed when he says, ‘Thanks for dropping by. Veuve’s safe and if she needs help, she knows where to come. I take care of her. When I’m gone, she’ll still be taken care of. You don’t need to concern yourself with her affairs.’

The challenge is clear, as is the dismissal.

I move to the door. ‘You take care of Paul and I’ll take care of Ross.’

He says again that he has no idea what I’m talking about but this time, his mask slips. I see his eyes flick from mine to the left as he speaks. He’s lying. I don’t call him out on it, there’d be no point. He has his reasons, whatever they are and it may well be in my best interests for him to think that I believe him. I nod, keeping my eyes on his and my tone light. ‘No worries. Thanks for taking care of Veuve. I’ll do as you say.’

His eyes narrow. He’s suspicious but there’s nothing I can do about that.

‘If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay away from her.’

I’m not sure whether it’s friendly advice from the same corner as Helene, or whether it’s a threat.

He’s closed his eyes but, as I leave I say clearly, ‘Thanks for the advice.’

I descend the staircase and find Helene preparing to vacuum. So much for making coffee. I bid her goodbye and, as I get back inside my car, I sit and reflect: the fact that two of the most important people in Veuve’s life don’t approve of me does not bode well. Nor did I manage to learn anything about Ross. At least I know that Thierri’s protection of Veuve in relation to Paul is still in place, that’s something, but the fact that I’m still no further forward with this Ross guy is really starting to piss me off.

I’M NOT SURE WHETHER it’s just my imagination but Veuve seems to be doing anything to avoid spending time with me. It’s been three days since we got into Thierri’s and she’s either spent her time with him or at the club with clients. She has her new front door on the flat now—I can’t see why she’s still seeing all of them at Vouloir ... unless she’s avoiding me.

She won’t take me there ... she makes excuses when I suggest it. And she’s insistent that nothing should happen between us in her flat because of The Kid. I’ve tried to argue that he’s nineteen but she uses his traumatic past as a reason for not allowing me to touch her, nor her touching me. I get that but we can be quiet—he doesn’t walk in unannounced. In fact, apart from when we sit on the balcony, he doesn’t set foot in her room. I honestly don’t think he’d have a problem with us.

There’s something on her mind, I know there is. I also know there’s no point in trying to force her to tell me what it is. She’ll only clam up tighter. I don’t want to cause any more friction between us either. I’m going stir fucking crazy, spending most of my time in the flat, keeping my head down. Or sitting in the garden as I’m doing now. I’m safely tucked away from prying eyes, behind Veuve’s building observing The Kid trying not to make it obvious that he’s ogling anything with a pulse.

I feel bad for him. When I told Veuve that we’d sat in a pub garden while she’d stayed at Thierri’s the other night—leaving out the part about him getting pissed, obviously—I’d mentioned to her how interested he was in girls but that he had no confidence. I was right when I’d assumed it was for the same reason that all of his social skills are fucked up, but there’s more to it than that.

Veuve warned me that he needs careful handling when it comes to girls—and matters of a relationship or sexual nature. She knows he’s not gay but he’d earned his keep in that evil child prostitution ring because he’d attracted a particular kind of clientele—men who preyed on little boys. Plus he’d seen what happened to his mum and his sister—and other young women. He’s damaged, she said. She just doesn’t know how badly. Every time I’ve thought about it since—and it isn’t something I’ve willingly thought about, believe me—it makes me more determined to catch those bastards and make them suffer.

Lying around all day with nothing to do makes it harder not to think about The Kid’s past. Especially since Veuve is hardly around lately. The sound of my phone ringing gives me hope. Veuve’s at Vouloir now, maybe she’s changed her mind? A glance at the screen tells me I’m wrong. It’s Mack, my mate at the Met.

‘Hey Mack, how’s it going?’

‘Not bad, mate. Listen. That body in the Thames tip off ... that wasn’t connected to your request for further information on two particular males was it?’

Two particular males?
What’s he talking about? I mean I know who he means—Thierri and Ross—but I don’t know why he’s phrasing it like that. He’s not usually so cryptic. And he never asks why I’m asking for information—he’s always said that the less he knows, the less incriminated he is if the shit hits the fan.

‘No, mate.’

I hear the relief, even over the telephone line.

‘Why?’ I can’t resist asking, although I know he won’t tell me.

‘Oh, nothing. Just thought I’d check, you know.’

‘No, I don’t know. You never check. Plus, what does it matter? One’s whiter than white where your department’s concerned and the other you’ve never heard of.’

He pauses for a fraction too long before he says he’s just curious. Bullshit. Something’s up. Something big. I know the worst thing I can do is let him know I’m suspicious so I just say, ‘No worries, buddy. I’ve long since lost interest in them.’

Again, he sounds relieved as he laughs and starts asking about Marx—another former Leatherneck. I chat away, laughing in all the right places, but there’s a big red flag waving in the back of my mind. And I think I’ve just figured out what it is. Knowing what to do about it is another matter altogether.

I’M SITTING IN MY office at Vouloir feeling like a shitty human being. I know I’m being unfair to Jones and that I should be honest but he’s done so much for me and he’s The Kid’s uncle ... never mind the fact that he’s now a wanted man. I don’t even want to know the penalty for pissing off the Secret Intelligence Service. I doubt that it’s very pleasant. In fact, they probably have ways of making things distinctly unpleasant that I can’t even begin to dream up.

The thing is, I feel trapped—seeing the way Helene responded to him has caused me to wobble in my conviction that I can take him under my crop and train him to be what I want him to be. No,
need
him to be. And all she’s done is harp on about how wrong he is for me. Even Thierri’s waded in and he never gets involved in my relationships. He says Jones is bad news and I’m to steer clear but he won’t say why.

But Jones has never given me reason to doubt him. He didn’t respond to Helene—her subservience didn’t seem to tick his boxes at all. He’d seemed oblivious. And okay, I know it’s shallow but he’s fucking gorgeous ... that body is enough to tempt anyone with a vagina. And that ink ... it speaks to me, calling me to trace the intricate designs with the tip of my tongue while I edge his cock to the brink, time and time again. It’s a temptation that I’m finding hard to resist but until I sort my head out, there’s no way I’m going to fuck him.