The Thing Itself (23 page)

There were wooden tables and chairs laid out in a courtyard, then a rustic-looking two-storey restaurant with a wall of glass facing out on to the canal.

The entrance was at the side and when they walked in they saw that it was in fact only one storey, with a very high, oak-raftered roof. The restaurant was half full. They were seated at a table by the large window. They could see both the restaurant and the courtyard.

Gilchrist sensed Watts's awkwardness. He ordered a carafe of wine.

‘We've got to be alert,' she said.

Watts looked at her intently.

‘You're thinking he might come in here?'

‘Aren't you?'

‘Well,' he said, looking at the white tablecloths and the silver cutlery on each table. ‘This might be a bit posh for him. There's a pizza place in town that'll be more his style. We can relax and enjoy the Languedoc. Do you know about the Cathars?'

Gilchrist punched his arm.

‘Don't start.'

He rubbed his arm.

‘You pack a punch.'

‘That'll teach you to go off on secretive missions leaving me to tend hearth and home.'

‘They also serve who only stand and wait.'

He put his hands up quickly in a pacifying gesture.

‘You'll see why I went off alone.'

He smiled at her, almost shyly, and they looked at each other, then both looked down. She found herself thinking that Watts's voice when it was low was immensely seductive, as she vaguely recalled from their drunken first night.

Bernie Grimes walked in as they were sharing a cassoulet and Gilchrist was feeling flushed from the wine. She flicked a glance, then looked back at Watts and reached out to take his hand as Grimes scanned the room.

Watts, surprised, started to withdraw his hand but she squeezed tightly whilst giving him her best approximation of a lingering look.

He got the message. He leaned towards her.

‘Alone?' he murmured.

She gave him a brilliant smile and nodded slightly.

‘OK, then,' he said.

She laughed as if he'd said something hilarious. Grimes was being seated at the table for two directly behind Watts.

Gilchrist had been expecting bling. But Grimes was wearing a conservative suit with a crisp white shirt open at the neck. Admittedly, three buttons were open to show off his tanned chest but there was no gold chain round his neck. He was trim and would have looked like a lawyer or accountant on holiday except for his face.

Not his face per se. His face was fine – regular features, neat haircut. His eyes and the mouth were the giveaway. Gilchrist could only flick quick glances because Grimes's eyes were roving, but she could see how cold those eyes were, how tight the mouth. This man chilled her.

She leaned closer to Watts, who also leaned in. She could smell the wine on his breath.

‘I used to think that stuff about killers having cold eyes was writers' rubbish,' she said. ‘You know – poetic licence. Eyes are muscles, right? They can't possibly show emotion or killer instinct or anything.'

‘But then you started seeing killers' eyes. Gary Parker maybe?'

She glanced over Watts's wide shoulder to see if Grimes was listening. She'd bet the house he would know the name Parker. Grimes was looking at the menu.

Watts said: ‘The first time I looked into your eyes, I remember thinking that you would have trouble with the tough guys.'

She frowned, her guard rising.

‘Why?'

‘Because,' he said, his voice falling to a whisper, ‘you can't disguise your essential softness.' She started to jerk her hand away. He held on to it. ‘That wasn't meant as an insult,' he almost hissed. ‘Your eyes reveal your emotions. That's a good thing.'

They ate in silence for the next ten minutes. Grimes ordered only a main course and was quickly tucking into it.

Gilchrist could tell by the set of his shoulders that Watts was impatient to turn round but knew better than to do so. Slightly wine-fogged, she was thinking about what he had said about her eyes. He was right, of course, but she wasn't going to admit it.

She also wasn't any clearer about what they were going to achieve here. Bernie Grimes was a tough cookie. He wasn't going to fold when confronted. She looked again at Watts. He sipped his wine.

Grimes was a smoker. Even in France, the non-smoking rules applied. After his main course, whilst Gilchrist and Watts were lingering over their coffee, he went out into the courtyard to light up a fag.

Gilchrist and Watts watched him wander down to the canal, trailing smoke behind him. Gilchrist looked at Watts.

‘And?'

T
ingley was being sick on the side of the road. Bent double, trying to expel the thing chewing his insides. Except now he didn't know whether it was the serpent or Radislav's bullet that was killing him.

He'd used the medical kit to try to staunch the blood and a couple of shirts as wads but he couldn't get the bullet out. He was dripping sweat and blood, and his mind was swirling in and out of reality.

When he had finished vomiting, he slumped into the passenger seat of his car and wiped his mouth with a tissue. He was exhausted.

He blearily wondered what to do. He knew he had to make it right with the Di Bocci family in Orvieto for what had happened with their cousin in Chiusi. Then what? He closed his eyes, just for a moment.

The wind tugged at Charlie Laker's jacket as he waited for Claire Mellon to open her door. He needed to be out of sight for a bit and nobody knew of his relationship with her. Nobody alive, anyway.

Relationship was too strong a word, but what else did you call something that had continued, off and on, for forty years? Admittedly, more off than on, but even after all these years, and with all the women he could have, he still got a thrill doing what he did to her.

Abuse her, that is. Her posture, her stupid splay-footed dancer's walk, her whole fey manner had infuriated him from the first time he'd met her. That was only a few hours after he'd shot Elaine Trumpler, John Hathaway's girlfriend, in the face. That was on the orders of Hathaway's father, Dennis, although he'd fucked her earlier off his own bat.

Claire Mellon had been in Elaine's flat when he'd gone round to clear it out. She was Elaine's flatmate. Mellon cowering against the wall had brought out the worst in him. It wasn't right and she didn't deserve it, but a few slaps and she'd done anything he wanted. Seemed to get off on him treating her rough.

It had been a revelation to him, both about himself and about posh totty. He'd discovered two things. He liked being sadistic and posh totty, when it came down to it, were skanks.

They'd seen each other regularly for a bit after Trumpler had apparently disappeared. Gone travelling was the official view. If Mellon thought otherwise, she never said.

Laker soon tired of her, packed her off and went back to Dawn. He never raised a finger to Dawn. From time to time, though, over the years, he saw Mellon. Same old, same old. She told him once he'd ruined her for other men.

‘I give a fuck?' he said.

Mellon's house had always been available to him, as had she. He'd been staying with her when Finch went off the cliff. In fact, he was sitting in the back of the car when his men did it. He didn't know her cat had jumped in the boot. Bloody thing had been following him everywhere.

He had one of Trumpler's diaries from the flat clearance. Usual teenage girl drivel, but he'd hung on to it in case there was some way he could use it against John Hathaway. He'd given it to Mellon to give to the police, to help them get John Hathaway. She didn't ask why. He couldn't think of the last time she'd asked anything. Just let him in whenever he turned up, let him do what he wanted, if he wanted. Waved him goodbye when it was time to go.

The door opened. What was that look that crossed her face when she saw him standing there? Fuck if he knew. Fuck if he cared.

Five miles an hour now seemed pretty fast. The lock was still half a mile away but Gilchrist could see the boats backed up, waiting to get into it. The Canal du Midi connected the Atlantic with the Mediterranean. These long, straight stretches went 150 miles from ocean to sea.

Here the sun glittered through the dense foliage.

She was aware how nervous her hand was on the tiller, how sluggish the boat was at doing anything but going ahead in a steady, straight line.

Watts was down the hatch with Grimes. In the restaurant he'd sloughed money on to their table and that of Grimes, then he and Gilchrist had followed Grimes out. They'd snuggled up together and cosied down to the canal side. Grimes, head back, drawing fiercely on a cigarette, had glanced their way as they'd passed him.

They'd separated and turned.

‘My God!' Watts had exclaimed. ‘Bernie!'

Grimes had started to turn but Watts's hug was fierce.

‘Wow!' Gilchrist had said, also moving in to embrace him. ‘Walk with us if you want to walk again,' she had whispered in his ear as she nuzzled his head.

Grimes had struggled but the two of them had virtually carried him on board the barge Watts had hired the previous day. Watts punched him in the kidney and hurled him down the stairs whilst Gilchrist took the tiller, cursing the mention she had made to Watts of that long-ago barge trip.

With trepidation, Gilchrist now steered the barge over to the bank. It was sluggish at shifting direction but she cut the engine at pretty much the right moment. She really needed Watts to tether it but she managed with a bit of a hop and a skip.

The barge was on the opposite side to the towpath where a group of cyclists suddenly whizzed by. There was the odd walker. A woman waved at her. She waved back.

Once she was sure the boat was securely moored, she went down the stairs. She was surprised to see Watts and Grimes sitting side by side on a sofa bench.

‘So who the fuck is she?' Grimes said, gesturing at Gilchrist.

‘A colleague,' Watts said. ‘All that matters is that she knows who you are.'

‘You want anything from me, you better give me names.'

‘Frankly,' Watts said, ‘names are the least of your worries.'

‘Oh yeah? Why's that?'

Gilchrist watched Watts lean against Grimes. Watts really was a big man.

‘Because you're stuck on a barge with me.' Watts brought his hand up and gripped Grimes's face. Hard. ‘And I'm at the end of my tether.'

Grimes tried to jerk his head away but Watts held firm. They were too close to each other for Grimes to do anything with his hands. Gilchrist knew Watts was digging his finger and his thumb into the nerves at the hinge of the jaw. It would hurt like hell.

Watts released Grimes. Grimes worked his jaw for a moment, giving Watts an intense look.

‘What the fuck has your state of mind got to do with me?' he said through gritted teeth.

Gilchrist didn't see Watts do anything but Grimes grunted and doubled over. Watts grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and jerked him upright.

‘OK,' Watts said. ‘I know you're a tough guy with a sawn-off in your hands but you don't have one here.'

‘What do you want with me?' Grimes rasped.

‘I want you to tell me about your relationship with Charlie Laker. I want you to tell me about your relationship with William Simpson. I want you to tell me everything you know about the house in Milldean where police officers shot and killed four people in their search for you.'

Grimes tilted his head to look at Watts.

‘Why the fuck should I tell you anything?'

‘Because otherwise we'll take you back to England and leave you flopping like a fish on Dover dock so the police can pick you up for all the lousy things you need to be punished for. And if we do that, you won't be seeing French sunshine ever again.'

‘I was nowhere near that house,' Grimes said. He looked from one to the other of them. ‘Who are you with?'

‘We're on our own,' Watts said. ‘We just want to see justice done.'

‘Sure,' Grimes said. ‘I hear that every day.'

He looked back at Gilchrist. His eyes widened.

‘Wait a minute – I recognize you from a photo in one of the English papers. Startled look on your face, hugging a bath towel to you – jugs spilling out. Those paparazzi are the pits, aren't they? You
are
a bloody copper – which makes this very dodgy for you.'

He leaned away from Watts to scrutinize him.

‘So, if I had to guess, you're going to be Bob Watts, disgraced chief constable. This screws you too.'

He started to get up. Watts restrained him with an arm across his chest.

Gilchrist leaned forward.

‘Your daughter tells me you'll make sure her attackers suffer.'

‘What's my daughter got to do with anything?'

‘Everything is connected,' Watts said. ‘Surely you know that?'

Grimes looked from one to the other of them. Gilchrist couldn't decipher the look on his face. Shifty, certainly; calculating too. But calculating what?

‘How do you know Charlie Laker?' Watts said.

Grimes was wary now.

‘Who said I do?'

‘My intuition tells me.'

‘I don't have to say anything to you two.'

‘This woman saved your daughter's life.'

Gilchrist bowed her head. Grimes didn't even look her way.

‘And she thinks she can trade on that?'

‘Depends what kind of a father you are.'

‘I'm seeing them right, believe me.'

W
hen Tingley woke, his head and his left hand throbbed. He looked at his hand. It was swollen to about twice its usual size and was coloured purple-red. Those ant bites. He looked down at the shirt wadded at his stomach. It was soaked in blood but he sensed that the bleeding had stopped.

He opened the glove compartment and took out his medical kit, dosed himself with antihistamine for his hand. He slid across to the driving seat and turned the engine on. He set off for Orvieto.