The policeman interrupted:

‘OK, Quinn, OK. I’m with you. Calm down. Are you on a payphone?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where?’

The doubt crept into Simon’s thoughts.

‘Somewhere in France. I chucked my new mobile. Don’t trust it. Don’t know…who to trust…Tell me what is happening.’

Sanderson said, very gently: ‘They’re fine. Your wife and son…are fine. But…there’s been…developments. Last night. I’m heading into my chief super’s office now. We’ll call you, I promise, in a few seconds. What’s your number?’

‘Developments? Is Conor OK? Have they found Tim?’

‘Conor’s totally fine. Suzie too. Safe as houses. What’s your number?’

Simon swallowed his anxieties; his anxieties had the horrible savour of bile, as if he had recently thrown up. He pressed a finger against his other ear, to drown out the sound of the airplanes. And he spelled out the digits.

‘Wait there,’ said the DCI. ‘I’m talking to the CS right now. Wait there and…trust me?’

Simon nodded and chunked the receiver. He looked at the dull steel payphone.

‘Bonjour…’

He swivelled. An affable-looking French chap, in neat jeans, and a light turquoise cashmere jumper – thrown suavely over his shoulders – was standing behind; the man was gesturing at the phone and smiling.

‘Je voudrais utiliser?’

Simon growled.

‘Go away.’

The man stared at Simon. Perplexed.

Simon growled again.

‘Go away! Merci fucking beaucoup!’

The Frenchman backed away, then actually ran into the terminal.

The phone trilled. Simon picked up.

‘OK -’ Sanderson’s tone was clipped, yet sympathetic. ‘I just wanted to get the latest from CS Boateng.’

‘What are these…developments?’

‘I’ve got extra men looking after your wife and son. And your mum and dad. That’s why they are safe. No one can get to them – these religious geezers, no one. No one can touch them. We haven’t rung you because we are being very careful, after what’s happened…’

The journalist had a cruel sense, at last, where this conversation was going.

The policeman confirmed it.

‘It’s Tim. Simon. Yer brother Tim. Why didn’t you tell us anything about Tim?’

‘I…don’t know…I just don’t know why.’

Simon shuddered with remorse. Tim. Of course. Why hadn’t he mentioned Tim? When Sanderson had asked about family members who could require protection, he had not cited Tim. Why? Was it because he was ashamed of Tim? Or because he just didn’t want to think about Tim? Or because he really thought Tim was safe so it was irrelevant?

Maybe it was all three explanations. Tied into a knot of denial.

‘What’s happened to him? Jesus. Is he…’

‘Not dead. But we know he’s been taken. Kidnapped.’

‘How do you know? Are you sure he hasn’t just run away?’

Sanderson’s voice was dry and cool. ‘Sorry. No. We have proof. They took him.’

‘Proof?’

‘A video. In an email. The captors sent it to everyone late last night. It went to your wife, your parents, and you, I’m guessing. If you get a chance to look at your email. You’ll find it. I suggest you delete first.’

‘Sorry?’ ‘Don’t watch it, Simon. Really. Don’t watch it!’

‘Why?’

‘It’s…bloody distressing.’

A plane was landing, with a malign roar. Simon pressed the phone closer: ‘Are they torturing him?’

‘No. But they are…using him. Manipulating emotions. And they do it well. They want to use your feelings, your guilt, to get at you. He’s their purchase on you. They clearly know you are in touch with Martinez, and Myerson. They will want all this, they want everything you know. Tim is in a lot of danger.’

‘So what do I do now? What can I do? Come home?’

‘No.’

‘Then what?

‘Hide.’

Simon pressed the phone closer to his ear, to make sure he was hearing correctly. ‘Hide? You just want me to…hide out?’

‘Just for now. Yes.’ Sanderson’s voice dropped a few tones. ‘I’m sorry but there it is. You chose to do what you did. You’re out there now. I don’t blame you for that. But…haring across France. Not telling us. Less than brilliant. But you’ve made your decision. And now you’re probably facing a bigger risk if you come back to London. You might be spotted en route, they will expect you to try and find your family. Your friends out there said we can’t trust the police in France, right? So it’s very bleeding tricky. Who knows where they will have people.’ He sighed, fiercely. ‘Main thing is – your wife and son are safe: I can vouch for that. My men are good. And there’s nothing you can do to help us find Tim.’

‘So I stay here?’

‘Stay there, for now, until we work this out. Stay quiet in France or Germany, you can cross the border unseen thanks to Schengen. Lie low. Very very bloody low. You know to use payphones only.’

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t even use the same payphone twice. Call me direct as before…Call Suzie on this special number.’

Simon patted his pockets and found a pen. He wrote the number.

The DCI sighed.

‘Simon…I’m sorry about this. But you should…prepare yourself for the worst. And don’t watch the video. You know how ruthless these bastards are. Speak soon.’

The phone clicked and brrrd. Simon thought of his brother.

I made a dog hope you like it.

41

The morning was bright and unutterably dazzling. David was woken by a knock on the door. Another employee, explaining:

‘Mistah Kellerman want you to join him on the terrace.’

David glanced across. He must have fallen asleep again, and the exhausted sleep had been profound: they hadn’t noticed the sun rising behind the flimsy curtains.

He tried not to think about the nightmare as they showered.

But Amy sensed something.

‘Are you OK?’

‘Yes. Yes of course…Thank God we made it.’

She looked at him.

‘Let’s go and find Eloise.’

They changed into clean clothes, sourced from a wardrobe, then they exited into the corridor. Immediately the assistant appeared, and guided them out onto a sunlit terrace, overlooking the sea.

The wind had dropped. The view was austere but pristine: an entirely empty beach, a couple of small rocky islands in the bay. The barking of distant seals. South and north stretched rocky wilderness, echoing coves and cliffs. Only the hulking metal shape of a diamond mine interrupted the abject desolation, far in the distance.

A table was set up on the terrace. Angus was there, drinking coffee. Kellerman was beside him, dressed in a cream linen suit, and a discreet silk tie.

And Eloise was sitting across the table.

Amy ran over, and hugged the young Cagot girl.

Nathan gestured in David’s direction.

‘Please sit.’

They sat. They talked animatedly with Eloise. She seemed relaxed, even happy. Or at least, not afraid.

Someone served a basket of pastries, and more fresh coffee, freshly squeezed juice, and cold meats and bread. The luxury was sumptuous and startling: like they had just checked into a surprisingly good hotel in Hell.

David and Amy both fell upon the food: instantly realizing how hungry they were. But then David stopped, and paused, and shuddered – and slid the glistening pink ham off his plate back onto the serving dish. He chose more fruit and bread. Not meat. He didn’t want meat.

Kellerman watched them, sipping his coffee from a china cup. Silent and aloof. His slender cellphone resting on the table. David had never seen such an anorexic cellphone.

Angus spoke first: ‘Guys. We’re safe here for the moment. I’ve been talking with Nathan. They won’t dare to come into the Sperrgebiet. Not past the guards.’

‘Are you sure?’

Angus flashed a glance at Nathan. Who nodded, rather casually; he was checking something on his phone.

Angus turned back.

‘So we can relax. For a day or two.’