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45

Ben awoke with a jolt. He could hear the sound of footsteps and movement from the room above. Voices in the corridor outside.

He looked at his watch and swore. It was almost nine. All around him were his notes and scribbles from last night. He suddenly remembered his discovery of the encrypted Fulcanelli signature. He wanted to tell the news to Roberta.

He went into the bedroom and saw that the four-poster was empty. He called her name at the bathroom door, then went in when there was no answer. She wasn’t there either. Where the hell had she gone?

He didn’t like it. He grabbed the pistol, tucked it away out of sight. Left the suite and made his way downstairs. Down in the dining-room, the British tourist group were eating breakfast and all talking loudly. There was no sign of Roberta. He walked into the empty lobby. Through a door, a group of staff were huddled in a circle jabbering in loud, urgent whispers.

He went outside. Maybe she’d gone for a walk. She should have told him. Why hadn’t she woken him?

He walked out of the entrance and across the car-park. The sun was already hot, and he shielded his eyes against the glare from the white gravel. People were milling about. A car-load of new guests were arriving, hauling luggage out of the back of their Renault Espace. There was no trace of her.

As he turned back towards the hotel his pressing thoughts were broken by the sudden shriek of a siren behind him. He spun round. Two police cars were crunching across the gravel in a hurry, throwing up clouds of dust. They pulled up either side of him. Each one had a driver and two passengers. The doors opened, and two cops climbed out of each car and started walking. They were looking at him.

He turned and walked fast away from them.

‘Monsieur?’ All four were coming after him. A radio crackled.

Ben walked faster, ignoring them.

‘Monsieur, one moment,’ the officer called louder.

Ben stopped, his back to them, frozen. The cops caught up with him and circled him. One had the insignia of a sergeant. He was solid and stocky, square shoulders, big chest, somewhere in his mid-fifties. He looked confident, as if he could handle himself. The youngest one was a kid in his early twenties. He had nervous eyes and a shine of sweat on his brow. One hand on his pistol-butt.

Ben knew that if they made a move against him, all four would be disarmed and on the ground before they could get a shot off. The hefty sergeant would be the first to go for. Then the nervy kid. He would be scared enough to shoot. Numbers three and four wouldn’t be a problem. But the two other cops in the cars were out of reach and would have time to get their pistols ready. That was a bigger problem. Ben didn’t want to have to kill anybody.

The sergeant spoke first. ‘Are you the man who called the police?’ he asked Ben.

Officer! I’m the one who called you!’ A guest was coming out of the hotel, a little fat man with grey hair.

‘Pardon me, sir,’ the sergeant said to Ben.

‘What’s going on?’ Ben asked.

The fat guy joined them. He was agitated, breathless. ‘I called you,’ he said again. ‘I saw a woman being abducted.’ He pointed and spilled out the details.

Ben stood back, listening with mounting alarm. ‘It was just over there,’ the fat guy was saying. His words came out all in a stream. ‘He was a big fella. I think he had a weapon…Walked her to a car…Black Porsche…Foreign registration, maybe Italian…She was struggling. A young woman, reddish hair.’

‘Did you see which way the car went?’ the cop asked.

‘Turned left at the bottom of the drive–no, right…no, left, definitely left.’

‘How long ago was this?’

The fat guy sighed and looked at his watch. ‘Twenty minutes, twenty-five.’

The sergeant talked into his radio. Three of the cops stayed to take a statement from the witness and question the staff. The fourth climbed back into his car and it took off up the road.

‘I saw her arrive last night, with her husband,’ the fat man was saying. ‘Wait a minute–now I remember it, he was the man who was standing here just now.’

‘The blond man?’

‘Yes–it was him, I’m sure of it.’

‘Where did he go?’

‘He disappeared a few moments ago.’

‘Anyone see where he went?’

There was a shout. ‘Sergeant!’ It was the young rookie. He was waving a sheet of paper. The sergeant snatched it from him and his eyes opened wider. The picture was probably about ten years old, crew-cut hair, military look. But it was the writing underneath that drew most of his attention.

RECHERCHÉ ARMÉ ET DANGEREUX