“Of
course
he said that,” snarled David, “he was being paid by the day! These people are professionals too, they can afford to take the long view. What they can't afford to do is waste time on people who've made it clear they're never going to pay up. That box of hair that no one else is taking seriously: that's a warning. They're running out of patience. If we don't deal with them now, today, they'll hurt her; and after that they'll kill her. You're going to let them kill Sophie for less money than it takes to antifoul an oil-tanker!”
“Sonny,” growled Ibbotsen, “you have no idea what it costs to antifoul an oil-tanker. I have. That's the difference between us, and that's why it's my money they're after, not yours.”
In despair David turned to Brodie. “He trusts you. You gave him value for money. Tell him you could be wrong.”
Brodie squirmed in the urgency of his gaze. “Of course I could be wrong. Anyone can be wrong. I gave you my honest opinion, based on a certain amount of experience. It's still my opinion. But yes, I could be wrong.”
“Now tell him that if you're wrong my little girl's going to die!” The emotion was packed so tightly into David Ibbotsen's voice that it vibrated.
Brodie couldn't deny it. She was good at what she did, she trusted
her instincts, but she'd never had to gamble a life on her judgement before. Would she have been so confident the missing child was safe, that the money could be retained without penalty, if it had been Paddy they were talking about? Just asking herself the question was enough to stifle the answer in her throat.
Daniel leaned forward, the scant bulk of his body coming between David and Brodie as if to protect her from something more physical than the truth. He didn't raise his voice, but there was that iron note in it that made people sit up long after they were old enough to ignore him. “Mr Ibbotsen, we're here because you asked us to come. You asked Mrs Farrell for her professional opinion and you've had it. If you don't like it, if you think she's wrong, fine, we'll go. But don't blame her for this. She wouldn't be involved if you hadn't involved her. Neither of us would. We'll help if we can, but we won't be your scapegoats.”
David stared at him as if something unexpected had happened: as if one of the staff, or even one of the fire-dogs, had answered him back. Then he blinked rapidly, and passed a hand in front of his face and exhaled. “I'm sorry. You're right: I'm behaving badly. I'm just ⦠so worried. I'm so scared we're going to get this wrong.
“An hour ago, when I called, I was scared then too but I thought we were on the last lap. They'd told us what to do, the only thing we could do that was acceptable to them, and my father and I had agreed we were all out of options. I thought all we had to do was follow instructions. They wanted a woman to bring them their money? - OK, we could do that. We could do it today, this morning, and just maybe have Sophie home for lunch.
“Then you arrive and instead of doing what we ask you rake over it again. Putting it in a different light. Offering new alternatives. Putting the whole thing back in the melting-pot. It's been going on for twelve days, and I'm cracking up with the fear, and now you tell me she's never coming back?”
Brodie felt the pang of his fear like a small knife under her ribs. She was no longer convinced it was warranted, but she believed he thought it was which made it just as real. “David -”
But he didn't want to listen. He didn't want anyone to listen to
her talking down the risk. He hurried on. “If I believed you it would be difficult. I'd have to get used to the idea that it could be months, even years, before I saw Sophie again. But at least I'd know she was safe - that when we finally got it sorted out, she'd come home safe and well.
“But I
don't
believe you. I'm sorry, Mrs Farrell, I know you're doing your best, I'm sure what you say makes sense. But you don't know Marie and I do, and I'm convinced that you're wrong. And that means my little girl is still in deadly danger, and I can't get any of you to understand! I'm sorry if I upset you. But you're a mother: you know how you'd feel in my position. With the greatest respect, Mr Hood, you don't.”
Daniel breathed lightly. “You're mistaken. I know exactly how much your daughter means to you. You were willing to kill for her; perhaps you'd be willing to die for her. But maybe what she needs from you most is that you keep your nerve.”
David regarded him with a dislike that, in the circumstances, had a certain nobility about it. But his voice was level. “You offered to leave now. I'd take that as a kindness.”
From the depths of his chair Lance Ibbotsen growled like a bear. “This is my house, David, if anyone's to be thrown out I'll have the pleasure of doing it. If you can't deal with this rationally, go for a walk and leave it to me. I happen to think Mrs Farrell's contribution has been profoundly helpful. Or perhaps you reckon I don't care enough about Sophie to have an opinion either.”
“I think you care about your money more!”
A more hurtful riposte could hardly be imagined. There may have been some justice in it; whether or not, the man could be forgiven for the tattered state of his emotions. But either way it threw a monkey-wrench into the discussion. There was no ignoring it and no getting past. Lance Ibbotsen rose slowly to his full height.
“Care about money?” he rumbled. “Damn right I do! I started with nothing, I've worked for every penny I have. First I did it for me, then I did it for you, now I do it for Sophie. Half a million? - chicken-feed! I'd set fire to the whole damn lot if I thought it would bring Sophie home. To start with I didn't pay up because I was afraid
it might get her killed. Now I'm not paying up because I think Mrs Farrell's right: that box of hair isn't the act of someone who's prepared to hurt her. But whether I pay or don't pay, sonny, it's my money and my decision.
“I'll take the blame too if I have to, but if there are mistakes to be paid for they'll be my mistakes, not yours. My judgement is good. I've had to gamble everything on my wits before this; you never have. Everything you've ever had was served to you on a plate. I don't begrudge you that, but don't think it qualifies you for an equal say in business matters. You haven't the talent, the skill or the experience. Half a million pounds won't break me, but it does put this into the big league. And you're not a big league player, David, and you never will be.”
David was on his feet too. But there was nothing he could say to change the brute reality that he hadn't the means to defy his father even in this most personal of crises. His eyes filled and his lip trembled, and he turned and stumbled out of the room without a word.
Ibbotsen made no effort to follow his son. He lowered himself back into his chair like a pteradactyl folding its wings.
Brodie regarded him with disbelief. “How can you claim to love someone else's child so much and show so little respect for your own?” She left the room in David's wake.
She expected to find him in the hall, possibly kicking an effigy of his father kept specifically for the purpose. But the hall was empty, and there were six doors and a sweeping staircase he could have used. She scowled. She couldn't search the house for him, and doubted he'd answer if she called.
A faint fairy tinkling drew her eye to French windows leading from the rear of the hall to a terrace overlooking the sea. They were shut, but a wind-chime of tiny bells was shivering gently, stirred by a recent draught of air. She let herself out onto the terrace.
The view was spectacular: across the sapphire sea all the way to France on a clear day. But she wasn't here for the view. She walked around the terrace until she found David Ibbotsen, hunched on a Lutyens bench. With his chin on his chest and his eyes closed he almost looked to be asleep.
Brodie said nothing. She sat on the bench beside him. He didn't lift his head, but one eye opened and regarded her laconically. “Welcome to the House of Ibbotsen,” he drawled. “Half Greek tragedy, half Hammer Horror.”
“Pretty much like everyone else's, then,” she said.
That made him chuckle. He shook his head. “The thing about serious wealth is that it opens the door to genuine hatred. People who need one another never get much beyond dislike.”
“He's an arrogant man,” said Brodie. “I suppose he thinks, having made all this, he's entitled to be. But he does care about you. You and Sophie both.”
“No,” said David quietly. “It's one of those comforting fallacies. Like women who spend every Saturday night in Casualty saying,
âHe's always sorry afterwards.' No, he isn't. If he was he wouldn't keep doing it. If my father gave a damn about me or my daughter he'd have paid up as soon as he got the ransom demand, and worried about getting even after Sophie was safe.”
“There was some logic in what he said,” murmured Brodie. She wasn't sure why she felt moved to defend the old pirate. Perhaps for David's sake: perhaps it would be less hurtful if he understood that it wasn't a clear choice between the child and the money.
“Would you have handled it that way? If you'd been in our shoes?”
She wouldn't lie to him. “No. But that doesn't mean I'd have been right.”
“Maybe it's not a question of right,” said David Ibbotsen softly. “Maybe decency comes into it too. If I get Sophie back without the old man having to stump up, you'd have to say that what he did was right. But it wasn't decent.”
Brodie couldn't argue with that. “There really is no such thing as a free lunch, is there? The people who envy you all this - this house, the family business, the lifestyle that goes with it - don't appreciate that you pay a price for it. You must dream sometimes of having a nice little semi and a job in a building society.”
David chuckled weakly. “He's right about one thing - I do have an easy, comfortable, privileged life. But if I had that semi I'd still have my daughter safe at home.”
“And your wife?”
He looked at her then away, shrugging. “I don't know. I doubt Marie would have married me in the first place. But maybe someone would.”
“What's she like? - your wife.”
“Ex-wife. She's - volatile. Emotional. Everything's triumph or disaster with her. When she's happy she's the best company in the world; when she's sad she plumbs the depths of despair. So you ask why, and it turns out it rained when she wanted to go sailing. You say, âGo tomorrow' - and she bursts into tears because she's surrounded by insensitive louts. I loved her for two years. The third exhausted me, and after that I honestly couldn't wait for her to go.”
“It wasn't her drinking that ended the marriage then.”
“The drinking was a symptom, not the cause. We weren't well enough suited, and I was too infatuated to see it.” He gave a rueful sniff. “And she thought marrying money would be a lot more fun than it turned out to be. Unfortunately, to enjoy my father's wealth you have to take my father as well. She thought she could change that. When she couldn't she started drinking.”
“David, everything you say about her fits my theory. Why are you so sure she isn't behind this?”
He bit his lip, made himself answer rationally rather than emotionally. “Because she hasn't the patience. Whoever did this spent time planning it. Marie might have snatched Sophie off the street if she'd seen her out walking with the housekeeper. She'd never have waited three years and then hit us with something as smooth, as calculated as this. She's not a cruel woman. I think she's a disappointed woman.”
“We know there were at least two people involved. Maybe the woman on the tape - whether she's a friend or hired help - set it up. Or there may be someone new in Marie's life. Someone who does think long-term, and who expected a share of the proceeds.”
“I suppose it's possible,” he conceded reluctantly. “But you're asking me to wager Sophie's life on your guess-work. What if you're wrong?”
Brodie gave an apologetic shrug. “I'm not here to talk you into anything. She's your daughter, it's your money - the decision has to be yours.”
At that his eyes flared bitterly. “If it was, this would have been over ten days ago.”
“Can't you raise the money yourself?”
David shook his head. “Institutions that would prostitute themselves to lend to the Ibbotsen Line would show me the tradesmen's exit. The old man's right: I'm not an equal partner. I'm not any kind of partner, just a handy conveyance for his genes.”
She wouldn't believe that. “If it hadn't been Sophie who'd been kidnapped, if it had been you -”
“He'd have called the police,” David said flatly.
Brodie felt terribly sorry for him. Maybe he wasn't the man his father was, but maybe he shouldn't have to be. He was entitled to be himself. Living in the old man's shadow had gift-wrapped a future for him, but it had also robbed him of the chance to make his own. It had undermined his marriage and now he believed it had taken the one thing that was of his own making, his child. If there was room to criticize David Ibbotsen, there was reason enough to sympathise with him too. “If you want us to butt out, Daniel and me ⦔
“I don't think it would make any difference. He'll do what he wants to do; if you hadn't given him an excuse he'd have invented one. Don't blame yourself, Mrs Farrell: I don't blame you and I shouldn't have said what I did. The whole mess is more to do with the Ibbotsen family than any outsider. We don't need anyone's help to tear each other apart.”
Brodie was trying to think. “When you called Marie to say that Sophie was missing, was she there? Did she answer the phone?”
David's eyes dropped, but not quickly enough to hide his embarrassment. “I didn't call her. It seemed - best.”
Brodie looked at him levelly. “You're telling me Marie doesn't know that her daughter has been missing for twelve days.”
He winced. “You'd understand if you met her. Marie is an hysterical personality. If we'd told her it would have been on the internet the next day. Keeping it secret meant keeping it from Marie.”
But increasingly Brodie believed that Marie knew well enough. “Phone her now. You don't need to talk to her - if she answers, put the phone down.”
He frowned. “What will that achieve?”
“It'll tell us that she's at home. If she has Sophie, she won't be. She has to be aware you might work it out, and if you do she'll have the gendarmerie knocking at her door. She'll be somewhere they don't know to look.”
They went inside. David had to look up the number.
The call was taken by an answering machine. He left no message. “What does that tell us?”
“Not a lot,” admitted Brodie. “She could be there or not; she could
be close enough to drop in and collect messages, or the far side of the country and phoning for them. Someone has to go there.”
“How will that help?”
“You'll know then if she's still living there, if she's visiting at intervals or if she's done a runner. The neighbours will know if she's still around, the local shops will know. The wonders of modern technology can take you just so far. After that you have to start knocking on doors.”
“You're talking about a private detective. A French private detective.”
Brodie understood his misgivings. There are good inquiry agents and there are bad ones, and it can be hard enough to distinguish between them in one's own language. “I'll go if you like.”
David stared at her. “You'd do that? After everything?”
“You need an answer quickly. I can do it quicker than anyone else. Or you, of course.”
His gaze fell. “If I go I leave my father to man the phone and make any decisions that have to be made alone. I don't trust him to make the right ones. If you're offering I'll accept, gratefully. If Marie can convince you she's not involved, maybe you can convince the old man.”
“All right,” said Brodie. “I'll go now. Give me Marie's home address, and her parents' address if that's different, get me on a plane -”
“We have a Lear jet,” said David. “It'll be ready inside an hour. Do you want to go home first?”
“I need my passport. And I'll drop Daniel off.” The sound of his name brought a question to her mind. She wasn't sure she wanted to hear the answer but she needed to. “Will you tell me something? Honestly, without worrying if it'll upset me? I'll go to France whatever the answer.”
“What?” But it was in his eyes that he already knew.
“For two days a man hired by your father tortured Daniel Hood for information he didn't even have. To what extent were you part of that?”
There was a long pause before he answered. “I only knew about
it when it was almost over. I knew they were questioning someone: I didn't realise what that meant. Maybe I didn't want to. When I saw what they'd done I threw up. My father looked at me as if I'd let him down again.”
Brodie nodded. “Tell him what we're doing. I'll be ready in twenty minutes.”
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David picked her up in the Range Rover, stowed her bag and passed her an envelope. “That's Marie's address in Quintin, and the address of her parents' home on the coast at Etables fifteen miles away. We're flying you into St-Brieuc and there'll be a car to meet you.”
“I'll start at Marie's,” said Brodie. “I doubt if she'll be there; but if she is, either Sophie'll be with her or she won't know anything about this.” She looked at him sideways as he drove. “You understand, don't you, that even if I find Sophie I won't be able to bring her home? You'll have to get your solicitor onto it: he'll contact the Home Office and they'll liaise with the French authorities. I don't want you to be disappointed when I get off the plane alone.”
In profile, David smiled. “Brodie, if you can find her - if you can tell me she's safe with her mother - I'll be eternally grateful. It doesn't matter how long the paperwork takes. Of course I'll get impatient, but the only thing that counts is Sophie's safety. Right now I believe she's being held by kidnappers who're prepared to hurt her, to kill her, for half a million pounds of my father's money. And since he'll do anything, say anything, convince himself of anything rather than pay up, I'm scared sick. If you can tell me I needn't be, that she's all right where she is however long it takes, I'll be in your debt forever.”
“But you don't believe it, do you?”
He shook his head. “No. I'm afraid.” He drew a deep, steadying breath. “But the sooner you find Marie and we know for sure, the better. If you tell the old man that money's the only answer, he'll pay. I believe that. I have to.”
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Stone walls clad in ivy and a lane of cobble setts led to what had been a small farmhouse. But unless the French had found a way of house-training them, no cows had crossed the yard in years. A small garden rumoured the spring and the pale sunshine picked out pastel paintwork. Marie Ibbotsen - or Soubriet, she had reverted to her maiden name - had been part of the nineties' land-rush, when city-folk decided the country was the new town, stocked up on Laura Ashley, and immediately started complaining about the smell of slurry and the noise of roosters.
The driver stayed in the car when Brodie got out. It occurred to her, perhaps a little late, that if Marie was part of an extortion racket she might be unwilling to discuss it calmly. If she or an accomplice produced a weapon, Brodie thought she'd leg it rather than waiting for the stout Breton in the Renault to defend her.