‘Martin, you sound cross. Don’t be. The wine I’m referring to was made on the Ile de Porquerolles. It lies just off the coast in the south. The nearest town of any size is Toulon. The vintner was named Jacques Massignac.’
‘So?’
‘He had a daughter, something of a beauty according to people who knew her years ago. She inherited the vineyard but she moved to Paris, and had no interest in making wine. Chateau Fermette is no more.’
‘I’m beginning to get your drift. You are talking about Annette Milraud, aren’t you? She told me she had southern roots.’
‘I am. Monsieur Massignac’s daughter is Annette. When he died she was his heir and as well as the vineyard she inherited the ‘fermette’ for which its wine was named. It seems she was going to sell it after her father’s death, but according to the tax people she didn’t – just last month they had a cheque for this year’s taxes.’
Now they were getting somewhere. ‘Isabelle, tell me everything you know about the Ile de Porquerolles and this fermette.’ After listening to what Isabelle had to say, Martin Seurat felt confident that he had something useful to tell Liz Carlyle.
Lightning, ear-shattering thunder, cascading rain – no film version of a storm could have been more dramatic. The clouds that had been hanging over the hills for hours had finally come east, and stayed put. Having watched half an hour of these pyrotechnics through her office window, Liz was wondering if the storm would ever pass.
The phone rang and she reached for it mechanically, her eyes still on the display outside. ‘Liz Carlyle.’
‘Liz, it’s Martin Seurat again. I think I may have some news for you.’
Liz listened raptly as Seurat recounted Isabelle’s discovery that a farmhouse and vineyard on the Ile de Porquerolles belonged to Annette Milraud, a legacy from her late father.
‘Where is this exactly?’
‘Just off the south coast, and only a few kilometres by sea from the harbour in Toulon.’
‘An island you say?’
‘It’s one of a small group. Not very large – it’s about seven kilometres wide, perhaps three across. Said to be very pretty, and quite unspoiled. It’s mainly a holiday resort in summer. Most of the island now belongs to the state, I believe. There is an old fort there; it’s now a museum.’
‘Does anyone live there?’
‘Very few people live there all the year round. There is one village, also called Porquerolles, on the north side of the island, near the fort, with a small harbour. Other than that there are a few hotels and restaurants open in the summer. There’s a passenger ferry to it from a tiny place called Gien. Outside the village there are virtually no houses.’
‘Is Milraud’s in the village?’
‘No. Annette’s fermette is on the other side of the island, facing out to the Mediterranean and North Africa. There are no beaches there, just high rocky cliffs. From the map I would say it’s very isolated. Isabelle’s people have made discreet enquiries and found that the house isn’t used now. It and the vineyard have fallen into disrepair. ‘
‘It sounds ideal if you wanted to hide something. Or someone,’ she added.
‘Exactly. Let’s talk about where we go from here.’
Liz paused to think. She was torn between wanting to send armed police to the island right away, and the realisation that any mistake might alert Piggott and Milraud, and end up with Dave being killed.
Seurat seemed to read her thoughts. ‘It’s a tricky one, n’est-ce-pas? I was going to propose that my people have a look around, but very carefully – I will supervise the operation. I’ll go down to Toulon tonight and we’ll look around in the morning. But if we do establish that someone is there, then I think we should move in quickly. The longer we wait…’ He left the sentence unfinished.
‘Of course,’ said Liz, already making arrangements in her mind. ‘In which case I’ll want to be there. Can you let me know as soon as you have any more information? If it’s positive I’ll come down to Toulon tomorrow afternoon. Unless you have any objection,’ she added as a formality.
‘Of course not. I was expecting you to want to come and I’ll be delighted to have your company. I’ll ring you tomorrow, and don’t worry: our people are very good. À bientôt.’
48
Pit pat, pit pat, pit pat. If the noise didn’t stop he’d go mad. The ceiling was too high for him to reach the pipe running along the beam in one corner, with its tiny leak causing this infuriating continuous drip of water onto the concrete floor. Why was he so obsessed with the noise when he had so much else to worry about?
You’ve got to concentrate, Dave told himself. Stop thinking about that bloody drip. Everyone will be looking for you by now. You’ve got to help them find you. He was trying to beat his tired, confused brain into action.
It had been pitch dark when they’d put him in here, and now he could see sunlight through the slit of a window high up in the wall. It must be afternoon, so he’d been here at least eighteen hours. By standing on tiptoe he could just look out and see trees and undergrowth. By the look of it he must have been brought south, Spain possibly or somewhere along the Mediterranean coast – France perhaps, given that he’d been in Milraud’s shop when all this started. Near the sea in any case; he could smell it when he put his face to the little window, and hear waves breaking on a shore.
He’d been on a boat for days, though he couldn’t remember much about the journey. He must have been drugged – and then he remembered being injected. He also vaguely remembered two occasions when they’d transferred him from one boat to another. The last one had been small – probably just a dinghy; he’d heard the outboard motor start. He’d had a bag or something over his head – and he’d been pushed and dragged up some kind of steep path. His wrists were tied and he’d fallen several times.
Then the foreign man had forced him into this place. He was Spanish – Dave was sure of that, since he had a dim memory of the man saying ‘sweet dreams’ sarcastically in Spanish. Suenos dulces – that was it. It must have been on the boat, but Dave couldn’t remember for sure.
Thank God the Spaniard had taken the bag off his head and untied his wrists. He’d also shoved a mattress and a blanket in before he locked and bolted the great heavy oak door.
Dave figured he was in some sort of old wine cellar, possibly a place where wine had been made. A faint aroma still hung in the air. There was a wall of empty bottle racks and two huge oak barrels which sounded hollow when he tapped them.
Who were they? Why were they holding him and what did they want with him? Think back, he said to himself. What happened? He could remember sitting in Milraud’s shop. They’d been looking at a derringer and he was just about to proposition Milraud when the Spaniard burst into the room waving a gun. Milraud must have alerted him. But why? For a moment he thought of Judith Spratt, sitting in her office, saying that he should have back-up and wait for Liz to return before he went to see Milraud again. She’d been right, but it was no good thinking about that now. If he ever saw her again he’d apologise.
They’d taken him off to the house in the National Trust place – he’d recognised the sound of the gate squeaking and banging – and they’d questioned him in a sort of library. He remembered Milraud standing in the corner, saying nothing while Piggott asked questions. He’d kept his cover – he was sure of that – but then it all went hazy. He couldn’t remember anything clearly until he was on a boat. Then just a lot of what seemed like muddled dreams. There’d been several people on the boat; he’d heard voices but couldn’t recognise them and he’d only ever seen the Spaniard.