Labyrinth (56 page)

A spasm of fear went through him and he struggled a little, only to register that his arms and legs were tied. Will heard the sound of a car boot being opened. He was half lifted, half thrown into the back. It wasn’t the usual sort of thing. He was in some sort of large box. It smelled of plastic.

As he rolled awkwardly on to his side, his head connected with the back of the container and Will felt the skin around the wound split open. Blood started to trickle down his temple, irritating, stinging. He couldn’t move his hands to wipe it away.

Now Will remembered standing outside the door of the study. Then blinding crack of pain as Francois-Baptiste brought the gun down the side of his head; his knees giving way under him; Marie-Cecile’s imperious voice once again demanding to know what was going on.

A calloused hand grasped his arm. Will felt his sleeve being pushed up and then the sharp point of a needle piercing his skin. Like before. Then, the sound of catches being snapped into place and some sort of covering, a tarpaulin perhaps, being pulled over his prison.

The drug was seeping into his veins, cold, pleasant, anaesthetisingthe pain.Hazy. Will drifted in and out of consciousness. He felt the car picking up speed. He started to feel queasy as his head rolled from side to side as they took the corners. He thought of Alice. More than anything, he wanted to see her. Tell her he had tried his best. That he had not let her down.

He was hallucinating now. He could picture the swirling, murky green waters of the river Eure flooding into his mouth and nose and lungs. Will tried to keep Alice’s face in his mind, her serious brown eyes, her smile. If he could keep her image with him, then perhaps he would be all right.

But the fear of drowning, of dying in this foreign place that meant nothing to him, was more powerful. Will slipped away into the darkness.

In Carcassonne, Paul Authie stood on his balcony looking out over the river Aude, a cup of black coffee in his hand. He had used O’Donnell as bait to get to Francois-Baptiste de l’Oradore, but instinctively he rejected the idea of a dummy book for her to hand over. The boy would spot it was a fake. Besides, he did want him to see the state she was in and know he’d been set up.

Authie put his cup down on the table and shot the cuffs on his crisp white shirt. The only option was to confront Francois-Baptiste himself alone - and tell him he’d bring O’Donnell and the book to Marie-Cecile at the Pic de Soularac in time for the ceremony.

He regretted he’d not retrieved the ring, although he still believed Giraud had passed it to Audric Baillard and that Baillard would come to the Pic de Soularac of his own accord. Authie had no doubt the old man was out there somewhere, watching.

Alice Tanner was more of a problem. The disc O’Donnell had mentioned gave him pause for thought, all the more so because he didn’t understand its significance. Tanner was proving surprisingly adept at keeping out of his reach. She’d got away from Domingo and Braissart in the cemetery. They’d lost the car for several hours yesterday and when they did finally pick up the signal this morning, it was only to discover the vehicle was parked at the Hertz depot at Toulouse airport.

Authie closed his thin fingers around his crucifix. By midnight it would all be over. The heretical texts, the heretics themselves, would be destroyed.

In the distance the bell of the cathedral began to call the faithful to Friday mass. Authie glanced at his watch. He would go to confession. With his sins forgiven, in a state of Grace, he would kneel at the altar and receive the Holy Communion. Then he would be ready, body and soul, to fulfill God’s purpose.

Will felt the car slow down, then turn off the road on to a farm track.

The driver took it carefully, swerving to avoid the dips and hollows. Will’s teeth rattled in his head as the car bumped, jerked, jolted up the hill.

Finally, they stopped. The engine was turned off.

He felt the car rock as both men got out, then the sound of the doors slamming like shots from a gun and the clunk of the central locking. His hands were tied behind his back not in front, which made it harder, but Will twisted his wrists, trying to loosen the straps. He made little progress. The feeling was starting to come back. There was a band of pain across his shoulders from lying awkwardly for so long.

Suddenly, the boot was opened. Will lay completely still, his heart thudding, as the catches on the plastic container were unlocked. One of them took him under the arms, the other behind the knees. He was dragged out of the boot and dropped to the ground.

Even in his drugged state, Will felt they were miles from civilisation. The sun was fierce and there was a sharpness, a freshness to the air that spoke of space and lack of human habitation. It was utterly silent, utterly still. No cars, no people. Will blinked. He tried to focus, but it was too bright. The air was too clear. The sun seemed to be burning his eyes, turning everything to white.

He felt the hypodermic stab his arm again and the familiar embrace of the drug in his veins. The men pulled him roughly to his feet and started to drag him up the hill. The ground was steep and he could hear their laboured breathing, smell the sweat coming off them as they struggled in the heat.

Will was aware of the scrunch of gravel and stone, then the wooden struts of steps cut into the slope beneath his trailing feet, then the softness grass.

As he drifted back into semi-consciousness, he realised the whistling sound in his head was the ghostly sighing of the wind.

CHAPTER 66

The Commissioner of the Police Judiciaire of the Haute-Pyrenees strode into Inspector Noubel’s office in Foix and slammed the door shut behind him.

“This had better be good, Noubel.”

Thank you for coming, sir. I wouldn’t have disturbed your lunch if I thought it could wait.“

He grunted. “You’ve identified Biau’s killers?”

“Cyrille Braissart and Javier Domingo,” confirmed Noubel, waving a fax that had come through minutes earlier. Two positive IDs. One shortly before the accident in Foix on Monday night, the second immediately afterwards. The car was found abandoned on the Spanish-Andorra border yesterday.“ Noubel paused to wipe the sweat from his nose and forehead. They work for Paul Authie, sir.”

The Commissioner lowered his massive frame on to the edge of the desk.

“Im listening.”

You’ve heard the allegations against Authie? That he’s a member of the
Noublesso Veritable?
“ He nodded. ”I spoke to the police in Chartres this afternoon - following up the Shelagh O’Donnell link - and they confirmed they’re investigating the links between the organisation and a murder that took place earlier in the week.“

“What’s that got to do with Authie?”

“The body was recovered quickly due to an anonymous tip-off.”

“Any proof it was Authie?”

“No,” Noubel admitted, “but there is evidence he met with a journalist, who’s also disappeared. The police in Chartres think there’s a link.”

Seeing the look of scepticism on his boss’ face, Noubel rushed on.

“The excavation at the Pic de Soularac was funded by Madame de l’Oradore. Well hidden, but it’s her money behind it. Brayling, the director of the dig, is pushing the idea that O’Donnell has disappeared, having stolen artifacts from the site. But it’s not what her friends think.” He paused. “I’m sure Authie has her, either on Madame de l’Oradore’s orders or on his own account.”

The fan in his office was broken and Noubel was perspiring heavily. He could feel rings of sweat mushrooming under his arms.

“It’s very thin, Noubel.”

“Madame de l’Oradore was in Carcassonne from Tuesday to Thursday, sir. She met twice with Authie. I believe she went with him to the Pic de Soularac”

“There’s no crime in that, Noubel.”

“When I came in this morning I found this message waiting for me, sir,” he said. “That’s when I decided we’d got enough to ask for this meeting.”

Noubel hit the play button on his voicemail. Jeanne Giraud’s voice filled the room. The Commissionaire listened, his expression growing grimmer by the second.

“Who is she?” he said when Noubel had played the message a second time.

Tves Biau’s grandmother.“

“And Audric Baillard?”

“An author and friend. He accompanied her to the hospital in Foix.”

The Commissioner put his hands on his hips and dropped his head. Noubel could see he was calculating the potential damage if they went after Authie and failed.

“And you’re a hundred per cent certain you’ve got enough to link Domingo and Braissart to both Biau
and
Authie?”

“The descriptions fit, sir.”

“They fit half of the Ariege,” he growled.

“O’Donnell’s been missing for three days, sir.”

The Commissionaire sighed and heaved himself off the desk.

“What do you want to do, Noubel?”

“I want to pull in Braissart and Domingo, sir.”

He nodded.

“Also, I need a search warrant. Authie’s got several properties, including a derelict farm in the Sabarthes Mountains, registered in his ex-wife’s name. If O’Donnell’s being held locally, chances are it’s there.”

The Commissioner was shaking his hand.

“Maybe if you put a personal call through to the prefect…”

Noubel waited.

“All right, all right.” He pointed a nicotine-stained finger at him. “But I promise you this, Claude, if you fuck up, you’re on your own. Authie’s an influential man. As for Madame de l’Oradore…” He let his arms drop. “If you can’t make this stick, they’ll rip you to pieces and there won’t be a damn thing I can do to stop them.”

He turned and walked to the door. Just before he went out, he stopped. “Remind me who this Baillard is? Do I know him? The name’s vaguely familiar.”

“Writes about Cathars. An expert on Ancient Egypt too.”

“That’s not it…”

Noubel waited. “No, it’s gone,” said the Commissioner. “But for all we know, Madame Giraud could be making something out of nothing.”

“She could, sir, although I have to tell you I’ve not been able to locate Baillard. No one’s seen him since he left the hospital with Madame Giraud on Wednesday night.”

The Commissioner nodded. “I’ll call you when the paperwork’s ready.

“You’ll be here?”

“Actually, sir,” he said cautiously, “I thought I might have another go at the English woman. She’s a friend of O’Donnell. She might know something.”

“I’ll find you.”

As soon as the Commissioner had gone, Noubel made a few calls, then grabbed his jacket and headed for his car. By his reckoning, he’d got plenty of time to get to Carcassonne and back before the Prefect’s signature on the search warrant had dried.

By half-past four, Noubel was sitting with his opposite number in Carcassonne. Arnaud Moureau was an old friend. Noubel knew he could speak freely. He pushed a scrap of paper across the table.

“Dr Tanner said she would be staying here.”

It took minutes to check she was registered there. “Nice hotel just outside the Cite walls, less than five minutes from rue de la Gaffe. Shall I drive?”

The receptionist was very nervous about being interviewed by two police officers. She was a poor witness, close to tears much of the time.

Noubel got more and more impatient until Moureau stepped in. His more avuncular approach yielded better results.

“So, Sylvie,” he said gently. “Dr Tanner left the hotel early yesterday morning, yes?” The girl nodded. “She said she would be back today? I just want to be clear.”

“Oui.”

“And you haven’t heard anything to the contrary. She hasn’t telephoned or anything?”

She shook her head.

“Good. Now, is there anything you can tell us? For example, has she had any visitors since she’s been staying here?”

The girl hesitated.

“Yesterday a woman came, very early, with a message.”

Noubel couldn’t help himself jumping in. “What time was this?”

Moureau gestured for him to be quiet. “How early is early, Sylvie?”

“I came on duty at six o’clock. Not long after that.”

“Did Dr Tanner know her? Was she a friend?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. She seemed surprised.”

“This is very helpful, Sylvie,” said Moureau. “Can you tell us what made you think that?”

“She was asking Dr Tanner to meet someone in the cemetery. It seemed an odd place to meet.”

“Who?” said Noubel. “Did you hear a name?”

Looking even more terrified, Sylvie shook her head. “I don’t know if she even went.”

“That’s okay. You’re doing very well. Now, anything else?”

“A letter came for her.”

“Post or hand-delivered?”

There was that business with changing rooms,“ called a voice from out the back. Sylvie turned and glared at a boy, hidden behind a mound of cardboard boxes. ”Pain in the bloody—“

“What business with rooms?” interrupted Noubel.

“I wasn’t here,” said Sylvie stubbornly.

“But I bet you know about it all the same.”

“Dr Tanner said there was an intruder in her room. Wednesday night. She demanded to be moved.”

Noubel stiffened. Immediately, he walked through to the back.

“Causing a lot of extra work for everybody,” Moureau was saying mildly, keeping Sylvie occupied.

Noubel followed the smells of cooking and found the boy easily enough.

“Were you here Wednesday night?”

He gave a cocky smile. “On duty in the bar.”

“See anything?”

“Saw a woman come charging out of the door and go chasing after some bloke. Didn’t know it was Dr Tanner until after.”

“Did you see the man?”

“Not really. It was her I noticed more.”

Noubel took the pictures out of his jacket and held them in front of the boys face. “Recognise either of them?”

“I’ve seen that one before. Nice suit. Not a tourist. Stuck out a bit. Hanging around. Tuesday, Wednesday maybe. Can’t be sure, though.”

By the time Noubel got back to the lobby, Moureau had got Sylvie smiling.

“He picked out Domingo. Said he’d seen him around the hotel.”

“Doesn’t make him the intruder, though,” murmured Moureau.