The rustling came closer. Tristan was deep in the trees, hidden from sight. Cat was watching Paul, wondering what he was going to do. She was about to head over to the trees herself. But then a man burst out from between the branches right in front of them. A man who wasn’t Tristan.
Ginny screamed.
Eighteen
SUNDAY, EARLY AFTERNOON
Pigalle is sitting in his office. His lieutenant, Sébastien Marchand, arrived a few minutes ago and is scrolling through his phone. Pigalle has purposely turned up the TV in the office and left the door ajar so that he can keep an eye on the couple and also talk about them when required.
The man is pacing the room now, getting restless. Pigalle has already told them twice that it will be at least two hours until someone can help them. At least.
These tourists . . . they do not understand the roads around here. Pigalle has lived here all of his life. Forty-five years. He has seen all of the things that the weather can throw their way. But it is becoming more common that the summer is as bad as the winter. Landslides caused by melting snow from up high. Not enough defensive support in place. They are working on it, but they cannot predict all of it. And it is just very bad timing that the rocks have fallen down on to the main road from Bern when these people so desperately need to meet with someone from the embassy.
The embassy was not pleased to have to send someone out on a Sunday. But tough. If he has to work today, someone else can damn well work too.
Pigalle is not pleased, either, that the tourists are refusing to talk without an embassy representative. It is their right, of course, but it is not convenient. It makes him instantly suspicious when someone exercises this particular right. They have come to the police, yet they do not want to be helped?
He asked them again about their missing friends, and the man seemed keen to explain, but the woman glared at him, and he shut up. So, she is in charge. She is the one he needs to try and break down. Unless they want to be here all day.
Pigalle is thinking about what he can do to try and gain the woman’s trust when the door to the station swings open and his wife marches in. He did not see her pull up in the car. She must have parked further up the street.
‘Voilà,’ she says, dropping a paper bag on the counter.
He goes through to greet her. ‘Merci, Sandrine.’ He smiles but she doesn’t return it. She looks harassed. But still beautiful, as always. She is dressed in her favourite designer workout clothing, her face gently flushed.
‘You’ve been to your class?’ he says.
‘Yes, yes. But I left early to go back home and get this for you after you left the message. I couldn’t concentrate knowing you were waiting.’ She returns his smile, eventually, and her eyes light up.
Pigalle knows that she can never stay mad at him for long. Even if he has ruined their lunch, their afternoon together, and now her exercise class – which she has left early, to go home and make lunch for the tourists. She wouldn’t be Sandrine if she refused his request.
She blows him a kiss, and then she is gone, leaving a soft fug of expensive perfume and an underlying whiff of cigarettes. Pigalle notes this for use later, when she complains about him smoking. They are both meant to be giving up, but they are both still smoking in secret. He’s not sure why they are bothering with the pretence anymore.
He’s grateful to her, for bringing them food and drink. He hopes the tourists appreciate the effort. Séb comes out of the office and inspects the bag, then starts to remove the items. Four sandwiches, four drinks. Two large bags of potato chips.
‘Lunch,’ Séb says to the tourists, holding two sandwiches aloft.
The man stops pacing and comes to the counter. He picks up the sandwiches.
‘Thank you,’ he says.
The woman comes and takes the drinks and the chips. ‘Merci,’ she says. They both retreat back to the seats and start to unwrap the sandwiches from the brown paper.
Pigalle watches them eat. The man bites on the sandwich and pulls hard with his teeth as if he is attempting to eat a chunk of raw meat, instead of bread and ham. He unwraps his own sandwich and takes a bite. OK, so maybe the bread is from yesterday. But it still tastes better than any of that awful sliced stuff the British are so keen on. He’s been to London a few times and been deeply unimpressed by the attempts at cuisine.
He takes another bite, chews slowly.
The couple – if they are a couple – are not talking to each other. They are eating in silence, occasionally taking a sip of their drinks. The man puts his sandwich down and opens the bag of chips.