Liz Carlyle - 07 - The Geneva Trap (29 page)

But Martin was not satisfied. He walked down the hall and stopped in front of the man standing next to Marcel. ‘What’s your name?’ he demanded.

The man started, his fright obvious. ‘Aubisson, Monsieur.’

Martin nodded and turned to Marcel. ‘And yours?’ he barked.

‘Jacob. Marcel Jacob, Monsieur.’

‘Come and show me the rest of this floor.’ And Martin opened a door that led into the drawing room off the corridor. Once inside he turned to Marcel who had followed him in. ‘Where is René?’ he asked quickly.

‘I don’t know. He was here last night.’

‘And Antoine?’

‘He left the day before yesterday on some errand.’

‘Okay. You’d better go back and join the others.’

The drawing room faced the rear of the house, looking out on to what must once have been grand formal gardens. Martin opened the French doors, stepped out on to a paved terrace and walked along the rear of the house until he came to the back door, where he found one of the policemen on guard. ‘Has anyone tried to come through this way?’ he asked.

‘No, Monsieur. There was a woman in the kitchen making breakfast, but she was told to join the others.’

‘And you’ve seen no one else?’

The policeman shook his head. Martin was about to go inside again when the officer added, ‘Except for the milkman. But that’s all.’

‘The milkman? When was that?’

‘Just after we arrived. He was coming out of the kitchen.’

‘How do you know he was a milkman?’

The policeman looked at him strangely. ‘He was carrying the empty bottles, Monsieur. And he had a milkman’s apron on.’

‘Then where is the milk float?’ demanded Martin, his voice rising.

The policeman pointed across the back gardens. ‘He left it on the other side of those trees. He said the track this side’s too overgrown to drive along it.’

‘
Merde
!’ said Martin, and ran across the lawn. Ahead of him he saw where the vestigial lines of a track went through the trees. He followed it until the wood ended at a large field of melons, small and unripe this early in the year. Peering across the field to the road, he wondered if René had made a run for it that way. Probably not: the little wood he had just come through was in fact a dense untended copse, full of brambles and bushy undergrowth – and full of hiding places he thought. They might search all day and never find the man.

He was looking around hopelessly when his eye caught a flash of white on the ground, underneath a bush about forty yards from where he was standing. As he drew closer, he saw that it was a piece of cloth – a bit of sheet, perhaps, or a scrap of torn shirt. He knelt down and tugged at it – it was a crumpled apron. Further inspection revealed a metal crate containing six empty milk bottles, one of them smashed.

He was standing up when a voice said, ‘Put your hands in the air. Slowly … very slowly. Then turn around. If you do anything stupid – anything that even
looks
stupid – I will shoot you.’

Martin did as he was told. Turning, he found himself facing a thirty-ish man in a white T-shirt and khaki combat trousers. René. Martin recognised him from the photographs. He stood about five feet away, holding an automatic pistol.

‘I’m no great marksman,’ said René, ‘but at this range even I won’t miss.’

Martin nodded to show he had no intention of trying anything on. He only hoped the others would come soon. But would they? Isobel and her team might be anywhere on the estate, and Cambery and his policemen were occupied in the house.

‘You won’t get very far, you know,’ said Martin, in his most assured tone.

‘Perhaps, though I think they will be busy in the house for a while yet. There are quite a lot of us to count off.’

‘But it’s you they’re most interested in.’

‘Really?’ René seemed pleased by this, but then his tone changed. ‘What do they want anyway? We aren’t doing any harm.’

‘Not yet, you mean. And if you’re so peaceful, what are you doing carrying that?’ He nodded at the gun.

‘It’s a good thing I have it, or I’d be having this conversation with handcuffs on. As it is, your presence creates a bit of a problem.’

Realising that himself, Martin wondered if there were some way he could distract the other man or even persuade him to put his gun away and just go. But then René said, ‘Put both your hands behind your neck.’ When Martin hesitated, René took half a step back and pointed the gun at his head. He quickly clasped his hands behind his neck.

‘Now turn around. And don’t do anything with your hands.’

Martin had had close calls before; twice in his life he had thought it certain he would be killed. But to be killed by a scruffy
communard
, some sort of anti-capitalist, that he hadn’t bargained for. It seemed so utterly …
banal.

He could sense René behind him, and said as calmly as he could, ‘Whatever you’ve done, René, is nothing in comparison to this. You might get five to seven for buying guns, ten if you’re unlucky. But killing me will mean you’ll never see trees like these again or a pretty girl on the street or eat a
plat du jour
with a carafe of wine. At least, not until you’re too old to enjoy them.’

‘I’ll take my chances. By the time they find your body I’ll be out of the country. Now, do you want to kneel down or remain standing up?’

The final moment was suddenly upon Martin. He wondered what to think with his last thoughts, and the only image that entered his head was of Liz – laughing, as they dined one night at the bistro near his flat. He said, ‘I’ll stay standing.’

He waited and in the little wood all was silent. He took a breath, then another. René was hesitating – Martin could sense that, and wondered if he should say something else.

But before he could speak another voice broke the silence. A female voice. ‘Drop the gun or I will shoot you in the spine. You won’t die that way, but you’ll never walk again.’ There was a slight pause, then the voice urged, ‘Hurry up!’

Martin heard something fall to the ground. Praying it was René’s pistol, he turned round. It was, thank God. Behind René stood Isobel, both arms extended, pointing her gun.

Martin quickly retrieved René’s pistol. He felt relieved but shaky – and angry. It was hard to resist the temptation to hit the other man.

‘Now let’s head for the hou
s
e,’ said Isobel, motioning with her gun for René to lead the way.

‘Just a minute,’ said Martin, pointing the retrieved weapon at René. The man’s eyes widened in fear, and Martin realised he must think it was his turn to die. ‘There is something we need to know – believe me, it will make things easier for you if you tell us the truth. Where is Antoine?’

René took a deep breath. ‘I sent him to Marseilles two days ago. He was taking a delivery. He’s due back tonight.’

‘Okay,’ said Martin and lowered the gun; as René walked ahead of them, Isobel kept hers trained on his back.

As they reached the track Martin said to her, ‘I’m not sure what to say, except thank you. No one’s saved my life before.’

She gave a little laugh. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll try not to make a habit of it.’

Chapter 49

Bech was tired. It had been a long week, full of meetings and business dinners – and his trip to Zurich. The discovery that Russian Intelligence was moving money out of Switzerland then circuitously bringing it back was still unexplained. Herr Kessler clearly thought he had done his bit and had come up with nothing more. What Kubiak was up to remained a mystery, and as the man himself seemed to have disappeared from Geneva, it was likely to stay that way

Bech was about to pack up and head home when there was a tap at his door. ‘Yes,’ he said.

Leplan stuck his head round the door.

‘What is it?’ Bech asked crossly, certain it could have waited until Monday. Leplan was good at his work but far too cautious – he checked in with Bech much more often than the other senior officers.

But now he came in without his usual hesitancy, and there was no apology for intruding this late on a Friday afternoon. ‘I’ve got some news I think you will wish to hear,’ he announced. He was clutching a folder of papers.

Bech knew what this would be about. Leplan had been non-stop in his pursuit of Kubiak in the past weeks, ever since he’d watched the Russian supervise the forced repatriation of Sorsky at Geneva airport. ‘Have you found him?’

‘No,’ said Leplan, but it was clear from his face that he had found something. Bech motioned the younger officer to sit down. He was impatient now not to get home, but to hear what Leplan had to say.

‘We’ve had the tests back from the forensic mechanics,’ Leplan announced. ‘They demonstrate irrefutably that the paint on Steinmetz’s car came from a Mercedes that was sold to Kubiak six months ago.’

‘Perhaps. But he may not have been driving it at the time,’ Bech said mildly.

‘It’s his personal car. A special order he put in; it’s not an official vehicle. It is very unlikely anyone else was driving.’

‘Okay. But that’s still not enough to connect him to the accident that killed Steinmetz. He could just say that he’d scraped the car on the street in Geneva.’ Bech was becoming annoyed now – was this all the officer had to tell him?

But Leplan pressed ahead. ‘He might have more trouble explaining this.’ He opened the folder and pulled out a paperback book, which he put down on the desk.

Bech peered at it, mystified. It was in English –
To Kill a Mockingbird
. He hadn’t read it himself, but his children had. It was a staple of English classes in the Swiss school system. And even Bech had seen the film; in black-and-white, with Gregory Peck defending a beleaguered black man facing a false charge of rape. But what did this have to do with Kubiak?’

Leplan laughed, a rarity in Bech’s experience. ‘Don’t worry, Herr Bech, I haven’t gone mad. You see, I had a visit today from Steinmetz’s widow, Mireille.’

‘How is she coping?’ Bech asked automatically.

‘As well as can be expected. I think she’s OK financially. She has her widow’s pension and a generous gratuity, but of course her life in future will be very different, especially when her daughter Anna goes to university. But that’s not why she wanted to see me. She brought me this,’ he said, pointing to the paperback. ‘Apparently it was returned to her by the police along with Steinmetz’s wallet and watch.’

‘Was the book his?’ It seemed unlikely.

Leplan shook his head. ‘No, it belongs to his daughter. She’d left it in the car the day before he was killed, when Mireille picked her up from school. It’s a set text apparently, and she had made lots of notes in it – so Mireille said her daughter was glad to get it back. But then she found this.’

He picked up the book and opened it, then handed it to Bech, open at a blank page at the back. On it was scrawled
GE 672931
.

‘What’s this?’ asked Bech. And then he understood. ‘A licence-plate number.’

‘Exactly. It’s the registration for the Mercedes saloon belonging to Anatole Kubiak. Steinmetz must have written it down when he was following the car.’

‘Didn’t you say he had been part of the surveillance on Kubiak once before? Maybe he wrote the number down then.’

‘No. The book was only put in the glove compartment the day before the accident. Mireille told me that she stopped at the supermarket on the way home from school. Anna stayed in the car, and took the book out of her bag to read while her mother shopped. When Mireille came out of the shop with a trolley full of groceries, the girl got out to help her put the bags in the boot – only she didn’t put the book back in her bag, she just stuffed it into the glove compartment and forgot about it. The next day Steinmetz took his wife to the airport, and for reasons I still don’t understand, ended up following Kubiak towards Lausanne. At some point he wrote down the Mercedes’s licence plate, probably in case he lost the tail; that way he could still trace the ownership of the car. Instead he was run off the road. Only now we have the number.’

‘And the two match?’

‘Of course.’ Leplan looked annoyed by the question. ‘Why else would I be bothering you, Herr Bech?’

Bech sat back in his chair, and breathed out noisily. ‘You realise it would never stand up in court.’

‘Yes, I know that. And even if it ever came to a charge, I know that the Russian would simply claim diplomatic immunity and skip home. But at least we now know he did it.’

Chapter 50

Liz had left a message on his phone, but when Edward phoned her back on her mobile he only got her voicemail. But there had been nothing worrying about her message; she’d said that the Cahors commune had been raided and René had been arrested. Antoine had not been there, but Liz had sounded confident that he would soon be picked up. Apparently, after hours of searching, a cache of liquid explosive, half a dozen handguns and two Uzis had been found. Evidence enough to put René away for a long time.

What a relief. Now, Edward hoped, Cathy would sense what a close call she’d had, cut all ties with the
communards
and settle down to creating a secure life for herself and young Teddy. Maybe a suitable chap would turn up one day so she wouldn’t have to be a single mother for ever – or maybe he wouldn’t; the important thing, he felt, was to get Cathy and Teddy settled.