Shallow Be Thy Grave (26 page)

It was taking Lily all her available brain space to work out what day it was. She thought it was Saturday. She spoke to Stuart, “We’ve still got three days.”

“I’ve booked a flight,” he said.

“You weren’t that worried then. I mean, you thought I might be dead but you booked a flight?”

He wiped at the scratch on his face, looked at the blood on his fingers. He shrugged his shoulders, defeated. “Lily, it was obvious what was happening.”

The euphoria of the night before had completely left her system. Made her feel like she was another person, another lifetime. Sadness welled inside her, so fast she thought she might be sick. “I’m sorry,” said Lily, her voice breaking.

Stuart turned back to face her. The blood had run from his nose so that there were splashes on his white T-shirt. He tried to smile but it didn’t work, looked more like he was about to sob. He kept his voice low. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“I should explain,” she mumbled.  Jo took the hint and went to the bathroom.

“I don’t want to hear. You keep focused on what we’re here for. To find Fiona. The rest of it is for another time. Or maybe,” he persevered, speaking so quietly Lily could barely hear him, “Maybe, I just have to accept we didn’t get a time.”

Lily chewed her fingernail. She’d almost ripped one from its bed with her attack on Stuart and now it stung. She felt like crying, wished she could, but something inside stopped her, refused to allow her that kind of release. Stuart was right, she had to stay focused and the anger was like rocket fuel. She couldn’t let it go.

They stood in silence until they heard the toilet flush and Jo make a noisy exit from the bathroom. Stuart opened his mouth like he was about to say something to Lily, but Jo was back in the room before any words came out. He turned to face Jo. “I went to the police today. Told them we still hadn’t heard from her. They’re going to put out some details. I think I managed to get them to take me seriously.”

“When’s your flight?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

Jo looked with confusion at his bag that was already packed, standing next to the kitchen door, like a sentry. He followed her gaze. “I’m going to go and stay with some friends.”

“You don’t need to do that,” said Lily.

“It’s better than another night on that sofa,” he said. He tried again to smile. “No wonder I’m grumpy.”

There was a silence in the flat after he’d gone. “Let’s have a nice cup of tea,” said Jo, sounding like Aunt Edie. “Before we go see the Shadow Minister for Justice.

Lily didn’t answer. She slumped onto the settee as Jo pottered round the kitchen and then busied herself rolling a spliff. “There’s good news,” said Jo. “The drugs arrived.”

“What?” asked Lily, staring at nothing.

“I posted them in Amsterdam.” Jo held up an opened envelope and Lily saw ‘Bruno, 12d Rue Pigalle’ written on the front.

“How?”

“I hid them inside my Ramones cassette,” she nodded at the two halves of a cassette on the table, “and then posted it. No more Imperial Leather.” She took a couple of tokes before passing it to Lily.

“It’s probably for the best,” she said and Lily wasn’t sure whether she was referring to the Ramones cassette or Stuart’s abrupt departure.

They left Brigitte’s apartment half an hour later. Lily automatically turned left at the bottom of the stairs, to head for the front door and the Metro in Boulevard de Clichy, but Jo shook her head. “This way.”

“What?”

Jo opened the fire door at the rear of the building and stepped over the low wall. The low wall where Lily had been sitting when Beaumont had first appeared. Lily had lost all sense of time in this city. She wondered again how Sian had handled the meeting with her husband and at first didn’t notice Jo pointing at something. Lily followed the direction of Jo’s forefinger until her gaze rested on a small motorbike parked in the small car park, its orange paint flecked and worn.

“Where’ve you nicked that from?”

“Marcel. It’s his old one. He said I could borrow it.”

“You can drive a motorbike?”

Jo shrugged. “It’s like riding a bike,” she grinned up at Lily, excitement sparking in her blue eyes. “Kind of.”

Two helmets hung off the handlebars. Jo passed the older one of the two to Lily. It looked like something soldiers would have worn in the war - only it was painted white instead of camouflage green. Lily squeezed on it over her dreadlocks and straddled the back of the bike.

Jo’s driving was always a hair-raising experience, something that Lily had long since resigned herself to. In a foreign country it was even worse. For one thing every time she turned a corner she seemed to forget which side of the road they should be on, which led to her zig-zagging across major roads at inopportune moments. Lily kept her eyes closed and tried not to think of Stuart and that awful wounded look that had clouded his green eyes.

It was past nine o’clock when they reached the home of the Shadow Minister for Justice and the streets were dusky and quiet. He lived in a small house in the third district, on a suburban street, where the houses had small gardens. Jo knocked on the door, a firm rap, like a policeman would and Lily marvelled at her resilience. Lily kept her hands in her pockets so no one would see them shaking.

A woman, wearing a pair of checked pyjama bottoms, a long-sleeved T-shirt and a pair of slippers answered the door. She didn’t show any surprise at the sight of Jo’s mohican.

“Is your husband home?” asked Jo.

The woman gave no indication that she’d understood the question. “C’est votre homme, est il dans la plage?” asked Jo.

“Pardon,” said the woman. She made to close the door, but Jo stuck her Doctor Marten size eights in it.

“Monsieur Billiet,” Jo paused and smiled. “S’il vous plait.”

The woman disappeared and returned a moment later with a man wearing a suit. He was a good-looking man, with crows’ feet around his eyes, but his face was masked with concern. “Bonsoir.”

“Bonsoir,” said Jo. “Vous suis amis von Brigitte. Vous sais tu et Brigitte.” She made a kissing gesture by pressing the tips of her two index fingers together. The last time Lily had seen someone make the same gesture, she’d been at primary school. “Ou est Brigitte?”

“Your French is terrible,” said Monsieur Billiet. “May I ask your nationality?”

If this guy’s a murderer, he has a great poker face, thought Lily.

“We’re English,” said Jo. “And I should just tell you, the British police know we are here. We are investigating the disappearance of Brigitte Chance/Stolz, whatever she’s called, and Fiona Winterbottom, an English girl. Would you care to tell us where they are? Or would you rather we got the French police involved? And the newspapers.”

“You think the newspapers would be interested?”

“I don’t see why not. Prominent politician paying for sex with illegal immigrant stroke teenage prostitute.” Jo put her hands on her hips. “I think it’s got all the makings of a front page.”

“You have been misinformed, but then, I take your point - that does not always matter to the newspapers. Would you care to come in?”

“Your wife might like to know some of what we’ve got to say,” said Jo.

“Sadly, I’m afraid, I do not have a wife. But my sister will be happy to make you a cup of French coffee, which is a hundred times better than the English coffee.”

Jo stared at Lily. If Lily had any doubts about crossing the threshold into the house of a stranger they suspected of murdering to protect his political reputation, she swallowed them down. She glanced again at Jo and then stepped inside.

He took them inside a pleasant, light and airy study, with a large desk and floor to ceiling bookcases. “Please, seat yourself,” he said. “Marie is bringing us coffee. Tell me how you have come to be in Paris.”

“We are bit short on the small talk,” said Jo. “We just want to know where Brigitte and Fiona are.”

“Have you any identification with you?” asked the Shadow Minister for Justice.

Jo pulled a face. “We’re not police officers.”

“Then how I am supposed to know that you are Fiona’s sisters? I may not even know that this girl has sisters.”

“Sister. Lily’s her sister. I’m Lily’s friend.” Jo crossed the room and peered out of the window onto a small, artificially lit back garden. “We came to find Fiona to take her back to England for a family funeral. And no one seems to know where she is. Then we find out her flatmate is being paid for sex by a politician who’s just been promoted to Shadow Minister for Justice. And then both women disappear. A bit of a coincidence. We all know politicians will do anything to get power.”

“An open and shut case,” he said, lighting a small cigar. “I can’t think why the police aren’t already here.”

Lily had the feeling he was laughing at them but outwardly he gave no sign. Marie came into the room with a silver tray of coffee and china cups. It was all very civilised, even while Jo was accusing him of soliciting teenagers for sex, murder and its subsequent cover up. Lily adjusted her position in the armchair, uncertain as to whether she should try to add anything to the conversation.

“However,” said Monsieur Billiet, when Marie had left the room. “There are a few flaws in your plan. The first is this. I did not pay Brigitte for sex. She is my lover, of that I am not ashamed. She is 20 years old and I am a bachelor of almost thirty two. This to me does not present a problem, but it is true, in our current political climate, that people make much of a person’s immigration status and for this reason, and only for this reason, we have tried to keep our relationship under the carpet.”

“Where is she?”

“I cannot tell you that.”

“Not good enough,” said Jo. “We’ve got two missing women on our hands. Anything could have happened to them. If you don’t tell us where they are, we’re going straight to the police.”

He pressed the tips of his fingers together and paused before speaking. “Listen. All I can tell you is, a few weeks ago, Brigitte was contacted by someone from her family. I cannot tell you why, but Brigitte does not want to have any involvement with this person and I believe this is her prerogative, her decision. And I respect this. I can tell you Brigitte is quite well and quite safe.”

“And Fiona?”

“Fiona is away, on holiday, as far as I know.”

“You mean, they aren’t together?” said Lily. Throughout the last few days, the one thought that had given her most comfort was that at least Fiona wasn’t on her own. “Fiona’s not with Brigitte?”

“I cannot say any more.”

“Jesus,” Lily stood up, spilling the hot cup of coffee over the floor. “My sister has been missing for ten days. She’s seventeen years old and no one knows where she is. You’re telling me you know where her best mate is, but you’re not going to tell us?”

“I’m sorry I cannot help you-”

“You disgust me.”

“It is not that I don’t want to help-”

“Bollocks. You just want to save your own skin.” Lily surprised herself with the strength of her tone. “You don’t tell us where she is, my next stop is the police station. And if they don’t listen, the press.”

“I will make some enquiries.”

“We’re running out of time.”

They took Monsieur Billiet’s telephone number and told him he had one hour. As they walked back down the pavement, Jo waited until they heard the front door close and then pulled Lily into the gateway of a house a couple of doors down the street. It was pitch black outside and although lights were on in the house, the blinds were drawn. “What are you doing?” asked Lily.

“Waiting.  Bet you ten francs he goes to see her.”

They waited fifteen minutes, until Lily was sure this was another example of Jo’s over-active imagination. But just as she was about to suggest they went back to the flat, they heard the sounds of a door opening. They peered around the gatepost and Lily saw Monsieur Billiet, wearing a light jacket, step onto the pavement. Jo pulled Lily deeper into the bushes at the side of the house as they watched him climb into a sleek, low car.  “Come on,” said Jo as soon as the car had pulled from the kerb.  She straddled the back of the 125cc motorbike.

“He’s easily going to spot us,” said Lily.

“No, he won’t. I’m not going to put the headlights on.

“Are you mad?”

Jo let the car get a long way up the street before gently coaxing the engine to life.

The engine was a bit throaty and Lily found herself hoping Monsieur Billiet didn’t have his windows down. It wasn’t a particularly warm night, so she clung onto the back of Jo and tried to hope for the best.

They didn’t have far to go. Less than five minutes later, they saw the blue car pull into a side street. Jo drove past, pulled the bike to a halt a few yards down the main street and then they both ran back on foot. The side street Monsieur Billiet had turned into was a cul-de-sac. There was no sign of the French politician but his car was there, parked in the driveway to the third house on the left. Jo pulled a face at Lily and Lily felt excitement well in her belly.

They were close, she knew they were. Had this sixth sense, not that she believed in sixth senses, but she could smell how close they were. They waited another moment. Jo lit a fag and they both shared a few urgent drags. Then Jo flicked it into the distance and they crept up the drive to the house together, careful not to make any noise. There were blinds at the front room window, so they looped round together to the rear of the house, staying close to the hedge, in the shadows. There was a kitchen window that didn’t have a blind, although the glass was kind of frosted. Jo gave Lily a leg up and Lily could make out shapes that she was sure were people. She could also hear the low thrum of conversation.

“What’s through there?” said Jo, pointing out a small gate.

At the back of the house there were wooden French doors, that were panelled at the bottom but glass at the top. The room itself was a dining room, with an inner door that was open, allowing light into the room so that they could make out the furniture and the fact that the room was empty of people, but not much more. “What are we going to do?” asked Lily.