‘What the fuck are you giving him?’ Roberta hissed at him.

‘Shut up, bitch, or you’ll get it too.’ Then he went back to ignoring her.

It seemed like hours and hours later when the stocky guard eventually swapped places with the scrawny, bearded man again. Soon after he’d resumed his watch over her, he gave her a tentative smile and she returned it. ‘Hey, you couldn’t get me a glass of water, could you?’ she called over to him. He hesitated, then went to a table where the guards had a jug and a few dusty glasses.

After she drank the water, he seemed to want to hang around closer to her cage. She smiled again. ‘What’s your name?’

‘A-André,’ he replied nervously.

‘André, c’mere a minute. I need your help.’

The scrawny guard glanced over his shoulder, even though there was nobody else around. ‘What d’you want?’ he muttered suspiciously.

‘I lost an earring,’ she said. That much was true. It must have fallen out somewhere between here and the hotel. She pointed down at the shadows of the floor. ‘It fell down there, your side. I can’t reach through the bars.’

‘Fuck you, find it yourself.’ He turned away with a sour look.

‘Please? It’s antique, twenty-four carat gold. Worth a lot of money.’

That got his interest. He hesitated, then slung the submachine gun behind his back and approached her. He dropped to his knees, searching in the dust. ‘Where abouts?’

Roberta crouched down facing him through the bars. ‘Just around there, I think…maybe this way a bit…yeah, round there…’

‘I can’t see it.’ He was scraping around with his fingers, a look of avid concentration on his face. He moved closer to her and she caught the scent of rancid sweat mixed with cheap deodorant, a kind of cold baked-beans smell. She waited until his head was almost touching the bars of the cage. She passed her hands through the bars either side, her heart beginning to race as she thought about what she was going to do. His attention was fixed on the floor. She took a deep breath and then went for it.

In a sudden movement she grabbed hold of his beard with both hands. He wrenched his head back with a stifled shout, but she held him fast. She used her knees against the bars to brace herself. Yanked with all her strength and his bony forehead crashed against the steel cage. He cried out in pain and grabbed at her wrists. Tightening her grip on his beard, she threw herself violently backwards and smashed his head against the bars a second time. He sagged to the floor, stunned but still struggling. She dug her fingers into his greasy hair, bunching up a tight fistful of it, and with the unthinking brutality that comes with desperation she dashed his head repeatedly against the concrete floor until he stopped yelling and struggling. He lay limply with blood oozing from his broken nose.

She let go of him and fell back into the cage, breathing hard and wiping the sweat out of her eyes. She saw the ring of keys on his belt and crawled forward in the dust. She stretched her arm out for it. It was just within reach of her straining fingers and she unclipped it, fumbling clumsily with the fear that someone would come in and catch her. As she tried the different keys on the ring she glanced nervously up at the steel door at the top of the steps.

The fourth key she tried turned the lock. She pushed hard at the steel door to shove the slumped body out of the way, picked up the fallen sub-machinegun and slung it around her neck.

‘Hey, wake up.’ She banged on the bars of the teenager’s cage, but he wasn’t responding. She thought about opening up his cell and carrying him out-but he’d be too heavy for her. If she could get out of here alone, she’d come back later with the police.

She ran across the cellar to the stone steps. Just as she reached the third step, the steel door at the top swung open, and she froze.

The tall man in black appeared in the doorway above her. Their eyes met.

She knew this guy. Her kidnapper. Without hesitating she pointed the SMG at his head and squeezed the trigger.

But he just kept walking down the steps, grinning broadly at her. She squeezed harder on the trigger, but it was stuck or something-the gun wouldn’t work. Three more guards filed through the doorway, all pointing similar weapons at her.

And they’d all remembered to cock theirs.

Bozza snatched the gun away from her. He caught the fist she swung at him, and twisted her arm up tight behind her back. A stab of pain. Another quarter inch and he’d break it. He marched her back to her cell and flung her into it. The barred door clanged shut behind her.

Bozza was filled with desire to cut this woman up, slowly and deliberately. He took out his knife and scraped the blade down the steel bars. ‘When your friend Hope gives himself up to us,’ he whispered in that hoarse, strangled voice, ‘we are all going to have some fun.’

She spat in his face, and he wiped it away with a harsh laugh.

Then she watched as Bozza slit the scrawny guard’s throat and bled him squealing like a pig into the drain in the middle of the cellar.

51

France ’s long hot summers, easy pace of life, good food and wine were qualities that attracted a great many retired British folks to leave behind the decaying island empire and resettle in mainland Europe. But not all of the ex-pats who settled there were the usual former solicitors, academics or businesspeople. It had been years since Ben’s old forces friend Jack had left the rain-drenched city of Blackpool and found himself a nice beach house near Marseille. Jack was semi-retired now, but he still had a few clients. His business was electronic surveillance…and a few related things on the side.

The Triumph Daytona blasted down the French coastal road like a missile. It was a two-hour drive to Marseille. Ben aimed to do it in one.

Five hours later he was riding back the other way with a large black hold-all strapped to the pillion.

The broad paved driveway cut between lush lawns to the sparkling glass and white stone façade of the modern building nestling in the trees. On one of the tall stone pillars at the gateway was a shining brass plaque with a cross and the inscription CENTRE FOR CHRISTIAN EDUCATION. Parked outside the building were rows of cars. From where Ben was standing at the gateway he could make out the discreet security cameras that swivelled and scanned the grounds from the foliage. The wrought-iron gates were shut. There was another camera on the wall, with a buzzer for visitors.

The kid would have climbed the wall to get in, which meant that his moped should be outside the grounds somewhere. Ben parked the Triumph a few metres down the road, and walked up and down peering under the bushes and trees. Where the rough grassy bank met the tarmac on the opposite side of the road, he found a light tyre-track in the dirt. The bank led gently up to a clump of thorny bushes and the trees beyond. He followed the flattened grass and found part of a footprint in the earth. Through the greenery he made out something bright yellow. He lifted a leafy branch and found the tail-end of the 50cc Yamaha protruding from the bushes. The registration number bolted to the rear mudguard was the same one Natalie Dubois had given him.

Ben walked quietly back to the Daytona. He’d already figured out his plan. He unstrapped the black hold-all from the pillion seat and laid it gently on the grass. He opened the side panniers of the motorcycle and reached inside for the blue overall and electrical equipment.

The receptionist was just about to take her coffee break when the electrician walked into the plush lobby of the Centre for Christian Education and came up to her desk. He was wearing work overalls and a cap, carrying a hold-all and a small toolbox.