“Where and when was he last in contact?”
“He went back to Colmar on Thursday from Paris to begin sorting out the shipping of belongings, cars … and stuff. Apparently, his colleagues say he felt guilty that he had opted not to escort Johnny Musselwhite on Wednesday and had left it to such a junior member of staff – well, he was on contract, actually – to look after him.”
“Have they tracked his phone?” Patrick wondered.
“Yes, he was connected and in Colmar until 5.30pm on Thursday. Then, his phone went dead with no location service – nothing.”
“I presume he wasn’t staying at my hotel. Where do FCO staff stay?”
“I’ll check, and someone will get back to you. He might have enjoyed a fun evening away from home and is sleeping it off, but that doesn’t explain the phone. Everyone here is a bit twitchy.”
“So, he went to the Auberge du Pont Neuf on Thursday?”
“Yes, but, Patrick, be careful if you go back there – or anywhere, actually – until we have half an idea what’s going on. Someone seems to have it in for Brits in Colmar.”
“I have an appointment at 10.00am tomorrow with the prosecutor for an update on progress over the weekend. I’ll see what they’ve discovered about the two events at the auberge. Brendan might have surfaced in Paris by then.”
In Buckinghamshire, it was late afternoon. There was a weak sun, and the sky was washed out with the only cloud consisting of a few patches of indistinct grey. The shadows from the tall cedars on the Yelland estate were long, faint smudges that barely reached the clipped box parterre. A heron was standing incongruously in the middle of the park, waiting for a frog or, failing that, for a vole to venture out from among the cow pats left by the Highland cattle.
Out on the road, two white vans with false number plates were approaching the farthest corner of the estate. One van stopped, and a man dressed in black leapt over the deer fence and began to jog across two fields to the back of the gatehouse. He peered into the windows, but could see no one. Walking out onto the drive, he triggered the sensors that automatically opened the gates for departing vehicles. The two vans swept in. The second one picked up the man in black and took off behind the first.
They drove fast along the tarmac drive under the avenue of mature limes, but they stopped before entering through a set of pillars topped with stone eagles. There was no gate to open, but this was the transition point onto the gravel immediately in front of the house. It also had a second set of sensors, which would sound a bell inside the house. Three men exited the vans, rolled under the beam and ran around the house to reach the glass door to a loggia; the two drivers remained in the vehicles.
The red metal battering ram that was slung over one man’s shoulder wasn’t needed – a jemmy opened the door with ease. They pushed into the glazed-in loggia that served as Charles’s snug and office. The men were well prepared. They had studied the plans of the house and had looked at dozens of internal photographs from the glossy sales brochure that had tempted the Yellands into buying the estate in the first place.
Outside, the two vans pulled onto the gravel, making a tight loop so as to park alongside the steps to the front door; the engines were left running. They slid open the side doors, ready to receive Maria and Angelica. Looking around for any signs of unwanted activity, they stood waiting.
Inside, the three men entered the hall and crept along, with their guns drawn.
Having heard the bell, two animated female voices were coming from the kitchen.
Mike had gone back to her bedroom. She was sitting in a small armchair, reflecting on the fact that she was spending her life working for older men who seemed to think that withholding information – or as she liked to call it, lying to her – was acceptable behaviour.
She had carried two bottles of Estrella Galicia beer, with their caps removed, up from the kitchen as she was in a thinking (and, perhaps, drinking) mood.
It had taken four days for her life to be turned upside down. Four days since Leonard had turned up at her cabin. Four days since she had learnt of Randy’s disappearance. And what had she learnt, even with a visit to Randy’s apartment? Nothing, in all reality. Well, she now knew a lot about gas pipelines and had an address of a riad in Marrakech where he might have stayed, but how useful was any of it? In all her years of searching for people, this was one of her worst in terms of meaningful progress. Often, she had failed to find or identify someone, but this had been because there was too much information or too many possibilities. With Randy, it seemed as though he had simply disappeared, leaving no trace.
As if this weren’t frustrating enough, Charles Yelland had resurfaced, deflecting her from the task of finding Randy. She had tried to kill two birds with one stone by coming to Spain. In one case, the bird had flown, and in the other case, what? What was Charles up to? Whoever was after him would now focus completely on the villa once Maria and Angelica arrived – a villa that was neither heavily fortified nor easily defensible. The villa in which she was sitting right now, drinking her cold beer.
Mike knew deep down that there was only one potential ally available to her. Starting to drink from the second bottle before it warmed up, she decided to spend a few minutes checking up on him. Wazz wasn’t on any of the very restricted databases that were still available to her illegally, she was relieved to see. He did, however, have a criminal record and had spent eighteen months in prison with parole refused after he had got into a bare-knuckle boxing match that he had claimed was an act of self-defence. His submission to the Parole Board had cited his otherwise good behaviour and his progress in his Open University degree in International Studies; however, his early release had been refused.
Mike had made her decision. She would go and find Wazz and confide in him.
Inez was at the bottom of the stairs and told her that Wazz was up in the tower room at the other end of the villa, a rather pointless box room created in an architecturally dubious mock bell tower. It did, however, provide good all-round observation and wasn’t used by the household. She tapped on the trapdoor and clambered up. He was looking at a screen displaying four camera views around the grounds.
“So, this is where you hang out?” she enquired.
“Yes, but I suffer from claustrophobia, so it’s not great for me.”
Prison can’t have been much fun either, she wondered.
The small staircase came up through a trapdoor and into a whitewashed room that was perhaps thirteen feet by thirteen feet with matching windows in each wall. It was furnished with a desk and a typist’s chair. There was a small crucifix on one wall; perhaps it had been used for quiet prayer by a previous owner?
“Nothing happening?” she asked.
“No. Just a few deliveries. I feel happier now Diego is on the gate. I’ve worked with him a few times. And in case you’re wondering, he can spot more with his one eye than you can with two.”
“He looks hard.”
“He was in La Legión – the Spanish Foreign Legion, that is. He was in the tercio, or regiment, based in Ceuta on the African coast across from Gibraltar.”
“We may need him, Wazz,” she began her confession. “I need to come clean about a few things.”
She was resting on a small windowsill with her legs crossed at the ankle, her default pose. He rotated the chair to face her directly.
“I’m going to trust you with some stuff that no one knows, certainly not Charles and his family. I told you that I’m ex-CIA, and I still freelance for them occasionally. My brother-in-law, Randy, still works for them and has gone missing. They want me to find him. There’s a slim chance that what he was working on overlaps with Charles and his future projects. I don’t know at the moment, but it can’t be ruled out.” She paused for this to sink in. “Separately, Charles has received a warning that his life is being threatened. He called me to investigate. He was tied up in some way with Johnny Musselwhite, the British minister who was poisoned in France. You may have read about it? It was Johnny’s assistant who rang Charles to warn him, just before the assistant, too, was shot.”
Wazz sat there quietly, but he was slowly forming the word ‘wow’ with his mouth.
“I was happy that Charles came out here. I thought it would be safer, as only two of his work colleagues know … and Maria, obviously. I was hoping that I and the police could find whoever is behind this before they came looking for him. I’m no longer sure this was a great idea.”
This time, Wazz did say, “Wow.”
“I didn’t factor in Maria and Angelica cutting short their trip to Mexico and flying back to Buckinghamshire. When they get out here, at least they’ll all be together, but I just wonder how many people now know where they all are?”
