Bright Angel (17 page)

An amazing wave of happiness washed over me. And in the same instant came enlightenment, and I suddenly remembered exactly where I'd seen a mention of Belgium, recently. For a beat of time, it made me feel shaky again. But I brushed the weakness aside. I was no longer going to shiver and shake and weep and wail. I was going to be strong. I was going to act. I did not know if it would lead to anything, this sudden memory. But I had to find out, for sure. No matter what it took. And no matter what it led to.

I got up and pulled on some clothes. Holding my shoes in my hand, I went downstairs, to Freddy's study. I turned on the laptop and fired up the internet.

I knew what I was looking for. I could see the article in my mind's eye, even if I didn't remember exactly which newspaper it had been in or what the headline had been. As Google came up, my fingers hovered over the keys. Did I really want to revisit all that? How could it possibly, realistically, have anything to do with what had happened here? But really I suppose I was just afraid.

I took a deep breath and keyed in, ‘Thomas Radic Wedding Heaven Belgium'. And there it was, instantly, the very first thing.
Gold Bar Scam Leads to Horrifying Death.
It was a link to the article about the background to Radic's problems, and how he had been scammed by fraudsters who had lured him to Belgium and fleeced him of lots of money. It was the event that had led to his other problems, the breaking of his engagement to Helen, estrangement from his family, deep depression and eventually his suicide.

I stared at the words on the screen. The trouble was that though I'd got to what had been nagging me, in truth the only slight, tiny link between back then and now was Belgium. And that was mere coincidence. I hesitated, then typed in the words, ‘Thomas Radic Sprouts London Brussels'. Nothing. I tried ‘Benedict Udo Thomas Radic.' Still nothing. I went back to my original search and looked at the other references. They were mostly variants of the same thing. I had proved nothing. And I had delved back into things I really didn't want to think about. All that was over. Quite over. And the Radic family had reconciled with the Makarios family, or at least, as Freddy had put it, offered some ‘closure'. It was time to put a full stop to what had after all been a false lead. I had to look in other places for what might be behind the kidnap of Gabriel and Daniel.

But I decided to click on the last link, just in case. It was a story like the others, and was illustrated with a photo, like the others. But not just with a mugshot of Radic or of the front of Wedding Heaven. This one was actually a few days later than the others, and was reporting on Thomas Radic's funeral. It was obviously not a picture the mourners must have wanted. You could see the coffin coming out of the church, but most of the people around it were obscured by a big, burly man in sunglasses and black suit, standing at the front, waving his arms angrily at the cameraman. In fact, he looked like he was just about caught in the act of lunging for him to punch him on the nose. The caption said,
Emotions run high at Radic funeral,
but that wasn't what made my breath catch in my throat and the hair stand on my head. I stared at the angry man and ice ran up my spine. I had no idea who he was, but I had seen him before.

I scrolled through the article, trying to find out who he was. To no avail. The reporter can't have found out. He must be family, or a friend, or a loyal employee of some sort, a bodyguard or bouncer, even, I thought, struggling to keep my mind clear. I looked in Google Images for other pictures of the funeral, but that was the only one. The funeral was supposed to be private and the media had been asked not to attend or take pictures, not only by the family, but by the police, too, who did not want a fracas. Only that paper had broken the agreement. And their photo wasn't exactly clear. Except for the man at the front. He was very clear. Unmistakeable, despite the anonymous sunglasses and suit. Something to do with the way he stood, with his imposing build, an impression of fierce determination. I'd caught only a glimpse of him yesterday in the street. But there was no doubt in my mind that it was him.

I stared at the photo, trying to damp down a rising tide of fear. The silence of the sleeping house began to feel less peaceful and more menacing. I thought about the man and where he might be right now and if he'd remember me and wonder. I had to tell the Lieutenant, I thought, dry-mouthed. I had to tell her straightaway. She'd given me her card. She'd said to ring any time, day or night, if I thought of anything. I had put the card in my wallet.

Taking hold of my courage, I went upstairs to get it, and my mobile. I put in the number. It rang and rang. No answer. Then it went into voicemail. That threw me. I had keyed myself up to tell her. And now she wasn't there. I should leave a message. But there was just so much to say. I couldn't explain it all, not like this. So in the end I just didn't say anything. I'd try her again later, I thought. But I felt so jumpy, so nervous and upset. Excited too, though. I'd really found something important. Something that surely – surely – couldn't be just a coincidence.

Mick. He had Captain Gaudry's number, I thought, suddenly. I could reach the police that way. Forgetting I'd hung up on him last time he'd phoned, fumbling in my agitation, I hit his number. Thank God, he answered on the second ring. He sounded sleepy, and rather surprised. ‘Sylvie?'

‘Something important's come up. I saw this guy yesterday in St-Bertrand, and he's on the computer too, I think he's involved, or at least there's a link, and it's connected with something in Australia, and I–'

‘Slow down, Sylvie. It's nearly midnight. I've been asleep. My brain's a bit slow. What the hell are you talking about?'

‘This guy I bumped into in the town yesterday, I only saw him for a minute but I'm sure it's him in this photo and I've got to speak to the police about it but Lieutenant Jettou's not answering her phone so I–'

‘I don't understand a word you're saying. You're going to have to explain. What guy? What photo? What does it have to do with Australia? You're not making sense, Sylvie.'

‘Sorry,' I said, and I burst into tears.

‘Oh no, don't do that,' he said, gently. ‘Please. It's okay. Are you at home? I'll come over straightaway. You can tell me about it. And we can call the Captain together.'

‘Okay,' I said, a huge wave of relief flooding over me. ‘I'm at home. Please hurry.'

‘Don't worry. I'll be as quick as I can. And, Sylvie...'

‘Yes?'

‘Take care. Don't open the door to anyone, okay?'

‘I'm hardly likely to at this time of night.'

‘Sure, but be careful. If there really is something in this, and the guy's in town – then he might be lurking around somewhere.'

‘I know,' I said, shivering, ‘I know that.'

‘Can you keep your doors and windows locked?'

‘I'm in Freddy's study, downstairs,' I said. The night seemed to press in at the windows. Freddy hadn't closed the shutters. And there were no locks on the windows. Suddenly, I froze. What was that noise? I nearly screamed. Then I realised the noise was just the weights of the big clock in the hall, dropping, not a heavy footstep. I whispered, ‘Please, Mick, hurry.'

If I'd been thinking straight, I could have gone out of that study, up the stairs, woken up Freddy and Claire, got them to call the police. I didn't know the French emergency number, only 000 in Australia. But I wasn't thinking straight, anyway. I was dead scared of moving from where I was in case, in case he really was lurking around somewhere outside, or even in the house – that he'd got in somewhere, that he'd remembered seeing me in the street, had found out my name and my link both to the Aubracs and to the Radic thing and would come looking for me. I didn't know how he would know that – our names had not been mentioned in the newspaper reports, only Helen's – but fear doesn't have to have any real basis to be real. My mind was just going in all directions, none of them useful.

‘I'm just leaving now,' Mick said. ‘Hang on, okay.'

‘I'm scared,' I said.

‘I know. Poor Sylvie. Don't worry. It'll be fine. I'm sure he's not around. Look, leave the line open and if anything happens, yell, okay?'

‘Okay,' I said in a small voice.

‘When I arrive, I'll say so, all right? Only open the door then.'

‘Yep.'

‘Good. I'm driving so I'll have to put the phone down on the seat, okay? But I'm still there on the end of the line if you need me.'

I whispered, ‘Thank you, Mick.'

‘It's normal,' he said. ‘You hang in there,' and then his voice drifted away and I knew he must have put the phone down on the seat. I huddled on the floor under the windows behind the desk, the phone clutched to me, hearing engine noises on his line, and it comforted me. He would be here soon. Very soon. Thank God he was so capable. Sensible. Kind. Dear, dear Mick, I thought, wildly. When this is all over, I–

What was that? A tiny rustle, outside the door. I sat bolt upright, listening. Silence. It was nothing. I was imagining things. Why would that stranger have any idea who I was or how I was involved in anything? He must be pretty sure no-one would recognise him, so far from Thomas Radic's funeral, or he'd not have shown himself like that. Of course, I thought, as the seconds and minutes ticked by, he might of course not be involved at all. It might just be a coincidence. He might be on holidays here or something. I mean, I was working on the assumption that somehow Daniel's uncle was linked in some way with what had happened to Thomas Radic, and that this guy had found out and was seeking revenge, but I had no proof of that at all. And who was he, anyway? Why would he want revenge? I knew he wasn't Thomas Radic's father. I'd seen a picture of him and Mrs Radic. But he must be linked to them, somehow, or he wouldn't have been at the funeral. I thought now of what Mr Radic had said to Helen, that they didn't blame her for their son's death but that ‘other problems' had killed him. Did that mean then that instead they blamed whoever had set up the scam that had started their son on the road to ruin? And was that Udo, who had been vaguely linked with criminal elements but in fact was deeply involved in cyber-crime and so on?

I think they're out to get Udo, Mick had said. I thought, he's right. But how did that square with the kidnappers' demand for the police to look into the activities of Fox Financial? If the Radics wanted revenge for their son's death and had somehow found out about Udo's involvement in the scam and sent out some kind of hitman, surely the guy would have gone straight to Udo and killed him or whatever it was they wanted? But maybe they couldn't get close to him, I thought. He was too well-protected. And so they'd gone for his weak spot.

What was that? My ears were so sharpened by terror that I thought I would even hear a leaf falling. Something outside – a dislodged pebble, a click of – no, no – it was nothing. I spoke into the phone. ‘Please, Mick, hurry, I'm so scared.'

‘I'm just about there,' he said, at once. ‘I'm parking the car.' I could hear the engine noises stopping, the door opening. ‘I'll be two seconds. Hang tight.'

‘Yes,' I said, and at that moment the world exploded in hideous noise and shattering glass as someone burst through the study window straight at me. Too terrified even to scream, I only had time for a glimpse of a burly body in black jeans and T-shirt and a sinister balaclava through whose slits glared a pair of ferocious pale blue eyes, before something heavy came down on the back of my head and I knew no more.

There's a strange smell in my nostrils. My head feels full of cobwebs. The back of my throat and my mouth are dry. I ache all over.

I open my eyes. For an instant, I can't think of where I am. What happened? I stare stupidly at what's around me. Not that I can see much. It's not completely dark in here – there's a sliver of pale light coming from somewhere high up, so I'm in a kind of thick grey dimness rather than pitch black – but everything is unfamiliar. I put a hand gingerly down. I'm lying on something cool. Not stone or cement. More yielding. Dirt, I think, packed hard down. I put a hand behind me, and feel just air. I lever myself cautiously to my feet, and both arms held out in front of me, feel my way towards a wall. It's cold, hard. Stone, this time. I walk a bit further and hit something else. Wood. Wood – and – my hands grope down – glass. Bottles. The smell is still in my nostrils, stronger now in fact and some reasoning thoughts start to struggle up from the cobwebby tangle and I know the smell is wine. I'm in a cellar. But what am I doing here?

As my eyes gradually become accustomed to the dim light, I start to make out a little more. The light's coming from a small barred window high up on the wall. There are wine racks all along one wall, a kind of stone sink at one end with a bench beside it and empty bottles sitting in it. A couple are not quite empty, there are dregs in them, that's probably what I can smell. The room is quite small, the air is close, but there's a tiny breath of air coming from somewhere, though I can't see where. There's a wooden door. I try the handle, without hope. It doesn't turn. I bang on the door but only succeed in hurting my knuckles. The door is thick, padded, heavy. There's hardly even a sound. I am locked in and there is no way of getting out. The window is unreachable. Even if I managed to break the glass, there would still be the bars. And even if I was some kind of superhero and prised open the bars, the opening would still be too small for me to fit through.

The light coming through the window is pale, greyish. Not sunlight. Not artificial light. Moonlight, I think. It's night. Memory's returning now. I've been attacked. Abducted. He must have been outside. Prowling. Watching. Listening. Somehow, he must have heard what I said to Mick.

My heart leaps. Mick. He'd raise the alarm, for sure. He was nearly there when the guy snatched me. He'd realise what had happened as soon as he arrived. He'd tell the police everything. They were probably already out looking for me. And there was the computer, still freeze-framed no doubt on that picture I'd been looking at. It would give them a clue as to the identity of the kidnapper. They'd track him down. They'd find him.

I shiver. Yes, but first they'd have to know where he'd gone. This place – it could be anywhere, in any direction from St-Bertrand. Maybe even a long way from St-Bertrand. I had no idea how long I'd been here. I had no idea even how he'd taken me here. But he must have had a car. There was no other way to transport a limp unconscious body. He could hardly have put me on his back and walked off to his hide-out.

I look up at the window. Even if I stand on tippy-toes, even if I climb on the bench, I won't reach it. I know I can't get out that way, but if at least I could get an idea of where I am, well, I don't know – somehow it would make me feel better. Less panicked. If only I could get higher – I look at the wine racks that reach up tall and I have a ridiculous idea but I have to try it. I climb onto the bench, then, very, very carefully, I reach over and put a foot on one of the rows of full bottles in the rack next to it. They stand firm. The rack is big, heavy, well-constructed, made of very solid wood, with each bottle securely ensconced in its niche. I slide across even more carefully. I am poised on the row of bottles now that stick out like a fragile set of steps. Holding my breath, I lever myself up. Rack and bottles stand firm. I am getting closer to the window. Up another rung, and one of the bottles under me wobbles. The breath catches in my throat. But the wobble stops. I go up another level. I am almost there. One more row, and I'll...

I am up there, holding onto the stone window ledge. Now I can look up and out. Not that there's much to see, except for long grass and a low dark huddle in the distance that might be another building – a shed, perhaps? A barn? Something like that, I think.

I'm not in town, I think. Not in the woods, either. I'm in the country. On a farm, probably.

It's then that I turn my head and I see it. High on the wall in a corner, hidden from sight from below because of the dimness and the wine racks, there's a grating – a crude ventilator. It's open. That's where the air is coming from.

Very carefully, I ease myself across from the ledge, reaching for the next wine rack. If I can manage to slide along, I might just reach the grating. My foot slips but I manage to steady myself. Thank God, the wine racks are rock solid. They don't budge, though the bottles are a different matter. If they slip completely, I'm going to end up on the floor in a tumble of wine and broken glass. I don't suppose it will do me much good. But I can't just sit there and do nothing. I'm not made like that. It's not that I'm brave – far from it. In fact, it's because I'm so scared. Scared to do nothing. Scared to just sit there, with all the possibilities of what might happen to me going round and round in my head. I can't cope with that. I can't bear the fear.

I'm almost at the grating now. Just one more step and I'll be there. And suddenly, I hear the sound of a key rattling in the lock. I am seized with terror. He's coming! He mustn't find me up here! I take a wild, mad leap backwards and by some miracle manage to land on the dirt floor unharmed without bringing the bottles down with me. I fling myself near the bench, far from the grating, and huddle with my knees drawn up, my arms around my chest, my head down. My heart is pounding so hard I am sure he will hear it when he comes in. He will think it is only fear. Instinctively, I know that's what he must think.

The door opens, then shuts. He comes towards me. I look up, fearfully. He has one of those Tilley-type lamps in his hand, a briefcase, and a plastic bag, which he puts on the bench. ‘There's some food there. Water. Once you tell me what's going on.' His voice is cool, unemotional, with one of those neutral Australian accents.

I stare at him.
‘Me
tell
you?'

‘Who you are, really, will do, for a start. What you're doing in St-Bertrand. Why you've been poking around into things that aren't your business. Don't lie, I'll know if you do.' The pale blue eyes that had looked so ferocious and alien against the black balaclava are now as cool and unemotional as his voice. He has an unremarkable middle-aged face under the well-cut salt and pepper hair, and with his balaclava off and casual clothes on, he hardly looks like a master criminal, and more like a fit businessman on holiday. But I know with a gripping in my chest that this man is both very dangerous and very intelligent, and that I'd better not stuff him around.

I swallow. ‘I'm Sylvie Mandon. I'm on holidays in St-Bertrand with my aunt and my sister. That's all. I swear. I don't understand why you...'

He surveys me coolly, but says nothing. Instead, he reaches for the briefcase, and opens it. And with a sinking heart I realise it's one of those sorts that incorporates space for your laptop. There is one in there. He pulls it out, switches it on, brings up an image that I recognise at once. He looks at me. There's a faint, frigid smile in the depths of his eyes.

‘You took Freddy's computer,' I say, hopelessly.

‘Of course. I could hardly leave it there for them to examine,' he drawled.

I say, defiantly, ‘My friend will tell the police. He knows. I told him.'

Something flickers in his glance. ‘I don't think he will. I don't think he
can,'
he says, softly, and looking into those cold eyes, a terrifying thought flashes across my brain. I have no idea what happened after I was knocked out. If Mick got there before the man got away with me – what – what would have happened to him? Of course the guy wouldn't just leave him there to tell everyone, any more than he'd leave the computer. But to kidnap two people at once wasn't practical. He'd have had to deal with Mick in some other way. I remembered Gabriel's nanny, who'd been attacked so savagely she was still in a coma.

‘Please,' I say, my throat constricting. ‘Please – my friend – is he badly hurt?'

He doesn't answer. Instead, he growls, ‘Enough. Stop stalling and tell me why you were on that site.' He jabs a thumb at the laptop screen. ‘Why were you interested in that picture?'

Nausea is rising in me. I can't help thinking of Mick, beaten to a pulp – left for dead – and I think it's partly my fault, getting involved in things I couldn't control or understand. But I try to make my voice steady. ‘I saw you in the street. I recognised you from the picture.'

‘That doesn't explain why you should look for that picture. I brought up the search history. I know what search terms you used.' He leans towards me, and hisses,
‘Thomas Radic Wedding Heaven Belgium.
I want to know why.'

‘Why what?'

His eyes narrow. ‘Don't be smart, girl. It tries my patience. If you want to get out of here in one piece, you better tell me the truth, and fast. What was it to you what happened to Tom?'

Tom, I think. Not Radic, or Mr Radic, or Thomas, even, but Tom. That spoke of a close relationship. Not an employee, then, but a friend, or more likely – I look into the pale blue eyes and suddenly, with a thrill of horror, I am back in Wedding Heaven, turning my head to see the young guy coming in the door, and our eyes meeting. His eyes were blue, pale blue. ‘But you're not his father. I know you're not.'

He is caught by surprise. Something like pain flashes in his eyes. ‘That's right. I'm his father's brother. His uncle. He was my favourite nephew. We spent a lot of time together.'

‘I'm sorry,' I say, and I really mean it. ‘I really am. It was – it was horrible.'

He stares at me, and I see the expression in his eyes change, from grief to ferocity. He growls, ‘What would you know?'

‘I was there,' I say, sadly. ‘I was in Wedding Heaven that day with my sister, to see Helen kitted out and–' I break off, unable to continue.

He looks at me for a long moment, then he says, blankly, ‘You were a witness to his murder?'

I stare, unable to believe my ears. ‘He wasn't murdered, Mr Radic. He shot himself ... in front of us. In front of us.'

‘Shut up. He was murdered,' he says, low, savagely. A wild light comes into his eyes. ‘Murdered by that crooked bastard Udo as surely as though he'd put the gun to poor Tom's head and pulled the trigger. Tom was, he was fragile. He trusted people. He believed–' His fists clench. ‘He was naive. If only he'd told me at the time–' He stops, takes a deep breath. ‘He told me later, but it was too late. I started investigations. I got a hint of the involvement of Fox Financial, and Udo. But I didn't have enough. I needed him to make a complaint but poor Tom ... he was ashamed, in denial ... and his mind was breaking down. And then–' He stopped, then resumed more strongly, ‘So. You claim to be a witness to the death of my poor nephew. But your name wasn't in the papers.'

‘There were quite a lot of witnesses,' I say, drearily. ‘Most of us didn't have our names in, especially if they're under-age, like me.'

‘I can check that easily, you know.'

I shrug.

‘Why then are you consorting with the family of his killer. Why?'

‘I don't know what you mean.'

‘The Aubrac boys. Udo's nephews. You know he's the bastard who destroyed Tom. You know that. Don't pretend to deny it.'

I say, ‘I
don't
know it, Mr Radic. I only know there have been hints that Udo isn't the squeaky-clean businessman he claims to be. And I met Daniel and Gabriel by chance. I had no idea who their uncle was. They don't even have the same name as him. Even if they did, it would have meant absolutely nothing to me at the time.'

‘You expect me to believe that?'

‘It's the truth. You can check.'

‘Hmm,' is all he says.

The softening of his tone emboldens me. ‘Please, I'm sure they don't know anything. It's not their fault. Please let them go. What harm have they ever done to you? Keep me if you must but please let Daniel and Gabriel go.'

‘Very touching,' he says, with a sneer. ‘But you're worth nothing to Udo. He doesn't know you from Adam. He doesn't care if you live or die. His nephews, however, that's a different story. That bastard will learn what real suffering is.' A look comes into his eyes that terrifies me.

‘Please,' I say, desperately. ‘Maybe you are right, and Mr Udo did run the horrible scam that trapped your nephew – but you've asked for an investigation into his doings. You've made your point. Please let the boys go. You've got to let the police deal with it, let justice take its course.'

‘Justice! There is no justice,' he says bleakly, ‘not when bastards like Udo can draw a respectable veil over their rottenness and swan around in society while their victims die of despair. And the police? You don't know them like I do. They don't care. The criminal to them is not the wicked man who has grown fat devouring other men's souls – not the vile spider who has trapped so many poor naive flies in his web – but the man who tries to avenge his own blood!' The colour rises in his cheeks, the blue eyes glint with a fanatic's gleam.

I swallow. ‘Please, Mr Radic, I do understand–'

‘No, you don't,' he says, harshly. ‘You have no idea. Steve and I, we are the only ones to do anything. Not even Tom's own parents have lifted a finger. My brother is a weak man. Spineless. Useless. What does honour mean to him? Less than nothing.'