For a moment, Fabrice looked confused. The barrel of the rifle was wavering. Clémence thought of trying to jump him. Then she heard a soft click coming from the hallway. Fabrice hadn’t noticed.
‘I’ll hit you over the head,’ he said to his father. ‘You can pretend to have been unconscious. Say that you didn’t know who I was. Better than that, you didn’t even see me. You can do that, can’t you, Dad? To stay alive.’
Clémence looked at her grandfather. Would he abandon her after all? He might, to stay alive.
That thought seemed to have occurred to Stephen as well. He nodded. ‘All right, Fabrice. With any luck I will forget everything, just like this old fool.’
Clémence spotted movement behind Fabrice, who was standing with his back to the doorway, covering the three of them with his rifle. It was Callum!
He raised something above his head with both hands. It was a silver toaster he had grabbed from the kitchen, not much of a weapon, but it should stun Fabrice at the very least.
Too late, Clémence noticed Fabrice’s own eyes narrow as they caught where hers were focusing. He ducked, twisted and swung the butt of his rifle, just as the toaster arced downwards. The toaster glanced off Fabrice’s shoulder, but the rifle butt hit Callum hard in the ribs, and he doubled over.
Clémence rushed forwards, as Fabrice brought the butt down on Callum’s skull. He crumpled.
Clémence threw herself at Fabrice, and they both careered into the wall. But Fabrice didn’t fall. He writhed and twisted and shook her off. He took a couple of paces back and pointed his weapon at the two of them. Callum was on all fours on the floor, groaning, and Clémence slowly pulled herself to her feet.
She moved towards Callum.
‘Leave him!’ Fabrice shouted. ‘Stand back and put your hands up. And you, whoever you are, you crawl over to Alastair and stay on the floor.’
Callum looked up, rubbing the back of his head, and did as he was ordered.
Fabrice stared at them, the barrel of his rifle skipping from one to the other. ‘All right, who’s first?’ He glanced at Clémence and then his eyes fell on the old man. ‘You, I think, Alastair. Definitely you.’
The old man stared back, defiant. Brave.
Clémence didn’t feel brave, she was terrified. She didn’t want to die, but the terror paralysed her. What should she do? Scream? Pray? Hold Callum’s hand?
‘Do it outside, Fabrice,’ said Stephen.
‘Why?’
‘Less mess. Less forensic evidence. If you take them out and shoot them, we can dump them in the woods. It might be quite a while until anyone finds them. No one will even know they are dead for a bit. Shoot them here and there will be blood everywhere.’
Fabrice glanced at his father.
‘Trust me. I’m a convicted murderer. I know of what I speak.’
The old bastard was making a joke of it! Clémence was glad that he wasn’t her real grandfather after all.
‘All right,’ said Fabrice, after a moment’s thought. ‘Line up together in the hallway. If one of you runs, I will shoot the others and then you.’
He glared at Alastair. ‘You go first out the back. Then the kid. Then Clémence.’
With an effort the old man hauled himself out of his chair and shuffled out to the hallway. Callum followed, still holding his head, and Clémence came last. She could hear Fabrice behind her. It was as if she could feel the gun pointed at her back.
Then she heard a crash, and swung around. Stephen was holding the toaster in both hands, watching as Fabrice staggered, the barrel of the rifle swaying.
‘Callum!’ Clémence shouted and grabbed the barrel. There was a flash and a deafening explosion in the narrow hallway. Plaster cracked inches away.
Fabrice straightened up and tried to yank the rifle away from her. Stephen rammed the toaster on his son’s skull again, and Callum grabbed the stock of the rifle.
Clémence’s ears were ringing, but she saw her opportunity and dug her teeth into Fabrice’s hand. He let out a yell, and loosened his grip on the gun. The toaster crashed on his head again. Callum ripped the rifle away from him and then smashed the butt into his face.
Fabrice was on the floor.
‘Give me that! I know how to use it,’ said the old man. Callum handed him the rifle. The old man chambered the next round and pointed the gun at Fabrice’s head. ‘Move, and I’ll blow your head off,’ he growled. ‘In fact, I might just blow it off anyway.’
The old man glanced at Stephen, who was straightening himself up, the toaster still in his hands, a lopsided grin of triumph on his face.
The old man smiled gruffly. ‘Imaginative use of kitchen appliances, Stephen. When we’ve tidied up here, can I buy you a pint?’
‘A pint? Tight-fisted old bastard. I’d say that deserves two at least.’
27
Thursday 18 March 1999, Heathrow Airport
Madeleine watched as the uniformed British Airways attendant poured her tea.
‘Would you like some cake, Mrs Giannelli? Some shortbread?’
‘Oh, shortbread, please,’ said Madeleine. She liked shortbread, even more than she liked chocolate digestive biscuits, Britain’s two greatest contributions to world culture, as far as she was concerned.
She sipped her tea. The first-class lounge at Heathrow’s Terminal Four was almost empty. A young man whom she thought she recognized from the television was reading a tabloid newspaper in a seat not far away. Young? He was probably fifty.
She was worried. She hadn’t heard from Clémence at all. There were no messages from her at the Connaught when Madeleine had checked out a couple of hours earlier. Madeleine didn’t own a cell phone, so she was effectively out of touch until she got back to her apartment on Park Avenue later that night.
Also nothing from Jerry.
Actually, although she was worried, it was nice to be out of touch for a few hours. Up in the sky, there was nothing she could do that would have any impact on the disaster that was unfolding in Scotland.
At times like this, she missed Nathan. They had been such a good team. Both of them capable, both of them ambitious, both of them respected each other. They had achieved a lot together, she and Nathan.
But it was all built on one massive, horrible lie. Nathan had killed her little sister Sophie and then kept quiet about it, despite all the havoc it had caused in so many people’s lives. Actually two lies. Nathan had killed her first husband as well. For their entire marriage Madeleine had been happy to go along with the others that it was all some ghastly accident, but now she wasn’t so sure.
Her fury, which was never dormant for long these days, reignited.
Nathan had deserved to die. She didn’t regret her part in that for one moment.
All along she had done what she could for Sophie’s family. She had tried to keep in touch with her sister’s three children. She had helped with Clémence’s education, and with Beatrice’s children’s. She had even bought a small flat for Stephen to live in when he had been let out of jail. But she hadn’t made it right. Only Nathan’s death would make it right.
But the rest? She was too tired for all the rest. Like Alden’s death, and Sophie’s, Nathan’s killing was giving birth to a whole series of unintended consequences, to at least one unintended death. Because Alastair Cunningham would probably now be dead.
And Madeleine regretted that now. Sophie had loved Alastair, of that she was sure. Alastair would have made a much better husband for her than Stephen. And she had felt some sympathy for the courageous old man she had met over the last couple of days, trying to do his best to sort out the chaos he had created.