Scaderstone Pit (The Darkeningstone Series Book 3) (3 page)

But the station was clearly in a dingy and desolate part of town. There was nothing here except for office buildings and small shops that had shut up for the night.

I checked the map on my phone. It was only a 15 minute walk to the hotel and perhaps it would have a restaurant, or maybe I’d see something open as I made my way into town. I shouldered my rucksack and started walking, ignoring the looks I got from the waiting taxi drivers.

But I hadn’t gone far before a dark saloon car cruised to a halt beside me. I glanced toward the car as its electric windows rolled down, but I kept walking.

“Excuse me, sir,” someone called out: a man’s voice, a French accent. “Sorry, but I am a little late.”

I slowed down and looked over my shoulder. The car’s driver was standing on the pavement and motioning toward his car. “I was a little delayed in the traffic.”

I looked around, expecting to see a businessman hurrying toward his driver. But there was no one. The man was clearly talking to me, so I stopped and said, “I’m sorry, you’ve got the wrong person. I’m not expecting a car.”

“Bien sûr. Of course, of course. You are staying at the Tours Nord Hotel, yes?”

I narrowed my eyes. “You’re wasting your time. I don’t need a car, I didn’t order one, and I’m certainly not paying.” I turned away and started walking.

“But, sir,” he called out, “the car is from the hotel, it has been paid for, by your father, I think.”

I stopped in my tracks and turned around slowly.

The man nodded, smiling. “Yes. Your father arranged for the car. Your name is Jacques, yes?”

“Oh. Right.”
Typical Dad
, I thought,
always planning ahead
. I started walking back toward the car, but something wasn’t quite right. If Dad had gone to the time and expense of arranging a car, surely he’d have called or texted to let me know. True, he had a tendency to turn everyday events into big surprises, but this was just silly. If the car had been a couple of minutes later, they’d have missed me entirely. “I should just call him,” I said, and I stopped walking and looked down at my phone.

“Everything is fine,” the man said. “But we must hurry, yes?”

I nodded but I didn’t look up. I concentrated on my phone, checking in case I’d missed a message from Dad. But then I heard another man’s voice: someone grumbling in French. And the sound came from inside the waiting car. I stared at the driver and saw a flicker of panic in his eyes. “Who’s that?” I demanded. “Who’s in the car?”

“Another passenger,” the driver said. “I picked him up earlier.”

I looked at the car. Its windows were heavily tinted so I took a step back and peered in through the windscreen. The car’s interior was dark, which was odd because the driver was still holding the door open. Normally there’d be a light, so the driver must have intentionally turned it off some reason. As I stared, a dark shape moved in the back seat of the car, but the passenger remained silent.

The driver took a step toward me and held out his hand. “Please, let me take your bag. My friend here is in a hurry to get to the hotel.” The driver gave me a thin smile. “He is eager to get a good table at the restaurant.”

I stayed exactly where I was. “But if you picked him up earlier, why didn’t you take him straight there?”

The driver shrugged. “We were on our way, but took a detour to collect you. And then the traffic…” He shrugged again then started walking toward me.

“Wait,” I said. I edged away from the road, putting more distance between me and the driver. But my back came up against the steel shutters of a closed shop. The man’s smile faded, and he reached for something inside his jacket.

This can’t be happening
, I told myself. But my instincts kicked in, telling me to get the hell out of there. I looked back toward the empty street. I had no idea where it led. If I ran that way, I’d be lost, and the car would catch up with me in seconds. But if I could just get past the driver and make it back to the station, I’d be safer. “All right,” I said. “I’ll come with you.”

The man gave me an appraising look. He kept his hand inside his jacket.

“I’d really like to get to the restaurant myself,” I said. I made a show of putting my phone back in my pocket. “Do they have steak, do you think?”

The driver relaxed a little, taking his hand from his jacket. “Of course,” he said. “Let’s go.”

“Sure.” I walked toward him, slipping my rucksack from my shoulder and wrapping the straps around my fist. I kept my eyes on his, waiting for my moment. Then, just as I came within arm’s length of him, the driver dropped his guard. He smirked and stepped back from the car, expecting me to climb into the backseat, but I turned quickly, swinging my rucksack toward his face with all my strength.

The man’s reactions were fast. He shifted his weight, dodging my clumsy attack easily. He stepped back, bending his knees, his fists held ready. But I’d never intended to fight him, and his change of position gave me the split second I needed. I ran toward the station, my head low, my arms pumping, my shoes thudding against the tarmac.

Behind me, there were raised voices. Footsteps. A car door slammed. But I didn’t look back.

I ran in through the station’s entrance, my shoes skidding on the smooth floor tiles. Directly ahead, there was the entrance to the platform, but to my right there was a row of three ticket booths. Two of the booths looked closed, but at the other, a uniformed woman was staring at me from behind the counter. Without slowing, I ran toward her. “Please,” I said, “s’il vous plaît, aidez moi.”

Her brow furrowed, but she said nothing until I reached the counter. “There is a problem?” she asked in perfect English.

I stood, panting, and looked back toward the entrance. The driver and a man I hadn’t seen before, were standing there, watching me. The driver frowned and shook his head, but the other man stood perfectly still, his face impassive, his arms folded across his chest.

I turned back to the ticket seller. “Please, call the police. The gendarmes. Those men—they tried to…to force me into their car.”

The woman’s expression hardened. She glowered at the men and barked something at them in French. She talked too quickly for me to understand.

“There’s no time,” I said. “Just call the police.”

The woman glanced at me then reached for the phone at her side. But the driver called out to her, spouting a stream of rapid French that I couldn’t follow at all. I stared at the man in disbelief. He was clearly trying to talk his way out the whole thing, and he was putting on a good show. He seemed affronted, and from the tone of his voice, I guessed he was saying something about stupid English tourists not knowing how to behave. As I watched, he gestured toward me as if dismissing me then he turned and walked out of the station. The other man rolled his eyes as if he’d been greatly inconvenienced then followed.

When I looked back at the uniformed woman, she was sitting back in her chair, her arms folded across her chest. “I think you have had a misunderstanding.”

“But—” I started.

“They say they were sent from the hotel to collect you. It is a courtesy, yes?”

I shook my head. “They were lying. I’m sure of it.”

The woman looked me up and down then pursed her lips. “I can call the gendarmes if you wish, but I do not think they will be pleased to come for this…” she frowned as though searching for the right word then shook her head. “Those men, they have gone now. There is no problem. Perhaps you would like to take a taxi to your hotel.”

I ran my hand through my hair. Perhaps she was right. I was sure I’d done the right thing in running from the men, but now that they’d gone, I couldn’t prove a thing. If the police were called, I’d have to wait for them, and then I’d have to give some sort of statement. It could take hours, and I really had no idea what I’d say to them. “OK,” I said. “I’ll just wait a minute, and then I’ll take a taxi.”

The woman nodded and pointed across the ticket hall. “There is a machine for coffee over there. Perhaps you need something.”

“Thanks.” I walked over to the coffee machine, certain that the woman was watching me all the way. But when I looked back, she was talking on the telephone and hunched over her desk as though she were writing something down.

I pulled out a handful of change and searched through the unfamiliar coins until I found the right number of euros. My schoolboy French was just good enough to understand the instructions on the machine, and I selected a black coffee. The machine whirred into life and as I watched the dark brown liquid steam and sputter into the paper cup, I replayed the last 10 minutes in my mind.
What the hell just happened?
Could it really have been a misunderstanding? The ticket seller had been convinced. And on the face of it, the men’s explanation was plausible enough. But if my dad had booked the car he would surely have told me. There was a chance that the hotel had sent the car without telling my dad. They’d have known when I was due to book in and they could easily have checked the train timetable. And since the man had known my name, it seemed like he must’ve come from the hotel.

But something wasn’t right. The driver hadn’t looked like a man who worked in a small town hotel. There was something about the way he was dressed, the way he held himself: like a military man. And when I’d swung my bag at him, he’d dropped into a fighting stance in the blink of an eye. And the so-called passenger had been physically imposing: a brute of a man. It made me shiver just to think what might’ve happened if I’d climbed into their car.

I took my coffee and sipped it. It was bitter, harsh, and still too hot, but I swallowed it anyway, feeling it burn its way down my throat. “I don’t know,” I muttered. “I just don’t know.” I drank some more coffee, and this time it didn’t taste so bad.

I kept my eye on the station’s entrance. There was no sign of the men, but even so, I didn’t feel safe. True, I may have over-reacted and made a mistake. After all, I was tired, hungry, and disoriented. But no matter which way I thought about it, the driver’s story still didn’t add up. If his passenger was simply another customer, why had both men chased after me and followed me into the station? And why had they seemed so serious, so intense? I’d been certain that they meant me harm.

I finished my coffee and crumpled the paper cup before tossing it into a waste bin. Then I did what I should have done straight away. I took out my phone and called my dad.

I’d had plenty of time on the train to set my phone to roam, and signal strength was good. He answered quickly as if he’d been expecting my call.

“Hey, Jake. How’s it all going? Did you get to the hotel yet?”

“It’s all right, Dad. But I’m still at the station.” I hesitated. “Dad, did you…did you tell them to send a car to pick me up?”

“Yes,” he said, his voice bright and cheerful. “Yes I did. Did they come?”

My heart sank, but then a wave of relief washed over me. I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could say anything, Dad cut in. “Only, when I asked them to pick you up, they said they couldn’t. They told me no one was available. But they assured me it was only a short walk so I didn’t really worry about it.” He paused. “Why? Is the car there now? What’s happened?”

“I’m not sure, Dad,” I said.

“Jake? Talk to me, Jake. Tell me what’s going on.”

I thought about telling him the whole story, but there was an edge of panic in his voice, and I couldn’t bring myself to say anything that might make him more anxious. “Don’t worry, Dad,” I said. “I’m all right. I’m going to the hotel now. I’m a bit tired, so I’m going to take a taxi.”

“All right. But listen, call me as soon as you’ve checked in. OK?”

“Sure, Dad. I’ll call you soon.” I ended the call and put my phone back in my pocket then I shouldered my rucksack and made my way slowly across the ticket hall. I hesitated at the entrance and peered out into the street. It was almost dark, but the street looked empty apart from the few taxis waiting outside. I glanced back across the ticket hall. The woman behind the counter was watching me, her head tilted to one side.

I took a deep breath then I marched toward the first taxi and peered inside. The driver raised his chin. “Oui?”

“Tours Nord Hotel, s’il vous plaît,” I said.

The driver nodded toward the back seat, and I opened the door and climbed in. As soon as I closed the door behind me, the driver set off, and I exhaled loudly. I still didn’t understand what had happened, but surely I’d be all right now. Surely I’d be safe.

Chapter 4

1919

MR. GRIGSON LOOKED ALONG THE MUDDY TRACK
and wrinkled his nose. The mud looked as though it was frozen solid, but even so, his shoes were handmade and had cost him dearly. True, he’d had them resoled twice, but the black leather uppers were still as good as new. It would be an awful shame to ruin them. But there was no way of avoiding the mud, and the rough track didn’t seem to bother his new client, Mr. Matthews, who was striding forward as though it was a fine summer’s day.

Matthews stopped walking and turned to look back at Grigson. “Come on, man,” he said. “A little mud never hurt anyone.” He raised an eyebrow as he watched Grigson picking his way through the frozen puddles. “Where there’s muck, Grigson, there’s brass. And that’s a fact.”