Crisps – that’s what they call them, isn’t it?
Pigalle doesn’t like them, but he knows that Séb will happily eat his share from the other bag that’s been taken through to the office.
The woman is facing the window. The man leans in towards her, holding the bag of crisps. Pigalle retreats into the office, but keeps watching. Keeps listening. They might think he can’t hear them over the TV, but this is one of his little tricks. He has excellent hearing. Sandrine often says he could hear a pin drop on a beach. He is also excellent at lip-reading.
‘Maybe we should just leave,’ the man says, quietly. ‘They’re not keeping us here. They don’t think a crime has been committed.’
She talks to him without turning to face him, her voice a low hiss. ‘Keep your voice down.’
The man frowns. He glances across at the door to the office, which is still ajar, but Pigalle is careful to keep him out of his line of sight. The sound of the football match on the TV is leaching out into the reception area. ‘The captain said it could be hours before the embassy send someone. Why don’t we go back to the hotel? Get cleaned up properly.’
‘Are you insane?’
The man sits back in his seat. He looks pained.
Why don’t they go back to their hotel? Pigalle wonders. He’s really not sure what their game is. If there even are others, out there.
Missing.
But something bad has happened, he can’t deny that. Their injuries are enough.
The woman is still staring out of the window. Pigalle takes another bite of his sandwich. He wants to know what she’s waiting for.
Nineteen
SATURDAY, EARLY EVENING
Ginny’s scream died in her throat as the man started to walk towards them. She recognised him. She was almost certain that he had been sitting at the bar when they were having their lunch. He was brushing down his red jacket. His hair was messed up from being ruffled by branches. A moment later, Tristan came crashing out of the trees behind him, swearing as a branch pinged back and smacked him in the face.
The man clearly saw their horrified expressions, and he raised his hands. Ginny wasn’t sure yet if he meant them harm, but he wasn’t moving fast and he was saying something that she didn’t understand.
‘I am sorry,’ he said, eventually, after meeting their blank stares. His accent sounded French, and she took in his jacket and knew she was right.
‘You were in the restaurant.’
Cat came up beside her. ‘I don’t think so.’
Ginny whirled around to face her sister. ‘He was. You spoke to him when you came back from the toilet.’ What the hell was Cat playing at now? She turned back to the man. ‘Didn’t she? You spoke to her.’
‘I think you are mistaken,’ the man said. ‘I am very sorry if I scared you all, I was . . . ah, taking the restroom.’
Tristan laughed. ‘You mean you were shitting in the woods? Seriously, mate . . .’
The man looked embarrassed. ‘I am shepherd, up here. I am on my way to my hut, but I was away for too long.’
Ginny stared at him. ‘You mean you were walking up here from the restaurant and you were following us.’ She crossed her arms. The fear from before had dissipated now at the bizarreness of the situation. But she wasn’t convinced he was telling the truth. He looked very like the man she’d seen in the restaurant earlier, but then she had only seen him from the table, and Cat seemed sure it wasn’t him. Why would she lie? That jacket though – she could’ve sworn she saw it hanging on a hook near the bar. But there were other jackets there too. And why was he even wearing it? She was sweating in a t-shirt. Bloody locals.
‘No harm done,’ Cat said, smiling at the man. ‘We just got a bit spooked. It’s been a long day.’
‘And it’s going to be longer still if we don’t get back to the hotel soon,’ Ginny muttered. She didn’t like the way Cat had looked at the man. Like she did recognise him, but she didn’t want the others to know. But that made no sense.
Ginny ran a hand through her hair. It felt lank and greasy. She was not feeling at her best right now, so it wouldn’t be that much of a stretch for her to think she recognised this man when she didn’t. She tried to think about the hikers from the start of the day, and realised she couldn’t quite picture their faces. One of them had worn red too, hadn’t he? She was tired. She was getting mixed up. And did it even matter if he was the man from the bar or not?
She let out a long, slow sigh. She could kill Cat for bringing her up this godforsaken mountain. The trainers she was wearing were rubbing on her heels and she knew there were blisters, but she didn’t want to tell the others and have them belittle her even further for wearing the wrong gear. Besides, that was Tristan’s fault. He must’ve known her shoes weren’t suitable. Had he not told her on purpose or was he just too distracted with his other bloody woman? She was finding it hard to tell if he was actually enjoying being here, or just enjoying having a dig at her and many digs at Paul – although he didn’t seem to be picking on Cat. Funny that.