It was late in the day when he detached Duncan McCulloch and Robert Ritchie, two of his best men, from the squad now sifting the responses to their Internet message and briefed them in detail on the investigation of Claudine Carter.
‘Keep it tight,’ he ordered. ‘Report back to me, no one else. This case is being allowed to go wrong. We’ve got to get it back on track.’
CHAPTER NINE
Mary cried, finally. Although not for herself. For her mother and father: for her father mostly. Mom had just sat there, saying nothing, her face not moving, like when they played statues at school with the person who moved first losing the game. Dad had looked so helpless, weeping as he had, not being able to talk properly when he’d asked whoever was holding her to tell him what they wanted so that he could do it and she could go home. She’d never known him like that. Not crying. Not knowing what to do. That wasn’t like dad. Grown-up men didn’t cry. Not dad, anyway. He always knew what to do. That’s why he was an ambassador, an important person. She didn’t like it, dad not knowing what to do. It wasn’t right. Made her feel funny, unsure of what was going to happen to her. She did know, of course. Dad would get her out: get her home. With lots of things to tell everyone at school.
It was the woman who made dad cry. Her and the stupid men in their stupid masks. But the woman’s fault most of all. They all did what she told them to do. So she hated the woman, for making dad cry. Couldn’t let her know, though. She might hit her again. Her bottom still hurt from the slapping in the bathroom. She hated the woman for slapping her, too. She ran her teeth over her brace, particularly the sharp bits. She wouldn’t take it out again. Not because the woman had slapped her for doing so: because she’d said she’d liked her without it. She wouldn’t do anything the woman liked, anything to please her.
Mary realized she didn’t have a handkerchief. She scrubbed her eyes and her nose with her fingers and tried to dry them on her skirt, only just preventing herself from jumping when the woman shouted.
‘Don’t be dirty! Get a tissue from the bathroom!’ Felicite was glad she’d come out to the house by the river to let the child watch the televised conference. It made her feel good, being able to reduce the man to tears. She hadn’t expected that. It was a bonus. Power. Much better than the satisfaction she got from making her group do what she wanted. Pity the wife hadn’t cried, too. That would have been wonderful, making them both dance when she pulled their strings. One was enough, though: enough for now.
She hoped Jean wouldn’t be too much longer. She wanted to hear what happened at the Justice Ministry. The rush hour in Antwerp might delay him. He’d sounded frightened on the telephone, but it only needed the smallest thing he didn’t expect to frighten Jean Smet.
Mary came back into the huge room with her face and nose dry, but uncertain what to do. Dad and mom weren’t on television any more, but there was a group of men talking about how kidnap victims were freed, and the strange giggling man who had felt her bottom had joined the woman to watch. The French being spoken on screen was very fast and Mary had difficulty following it. She thought she heard something about Belgium’s having a bad record for child crime – she wasn’t sure what rapports sexuels actually meant but it sounded like what they’d been told about in biology at school, how babies were made – and a succession of children’s photographs suddenly appeared on the screen.
‘Can you understand what they’re saying?’ demanded Felicite. By telephoning the school – another pleasure, speaking to the establishment whose pupil was hers now, to do with what she chose – pretending to be the parent of a potential student, she’d discovered the curriculum languages were German and English in addition to French.
‘I’m not very good. Something about children being taken away from their parents.’
To Mehre, in English, Felicite said: ‘The men on the television were talking about children getting punished if they’re bad, weren’t they?’
Mehre sniggered so hard it sounded like a cough. He said: ‘Yes! Are we going to do it!’
Mary was sure they hadn’t been speaking about punishment. ‘I haven’t done anything bad.’
‘You’re not going to, are you?’
‘Let me, please!’ said the man urgently.
‘Dad said he wanted to talk to you.’
‘Are you going to be naughty?’
‘No,’ Mary made herself say. The woman wanted to hurt her again. Why was the man snuffling?
‘I really want to be nice to you. We all do,’ said Felicite.
Mary couldn’t think what to say. She lowered herself very gently on to one of the big chairs, like a movie seat, in front of the giant screen. Her bottom still hurt. The men weren’t talking on television any more. Sesame Street was on, although it was in French. She could understand that easily enough. She tried to watch it but not so the woman would see and get angry.
‘I want to love you. Be kind to you.’
‘Take me home, then.’
‘I will.’
‘When?’
‘Not yet.’
‘When?’
‘Soon. Would you like me to be nice to you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t want me to slap you again, do you?’
‘No!’
‘So you’ve got to be a good girl. Do what I tell you to do.’
‘All right.’ Mary wanted to go back to her room: not to be with this woman and the man who was grunting more than laughing now.
‘Did you like seeing your mama and papa?’
‘Yes.’ They were trying to make her cry again but she wouldn’t. ‘Are you going to talk to him, like he asked?’
‘He knows you’re safe.’
Mary swallowed. ‘When can I go?’ She wished she hadn’t walked away from school. She wouldn’t do it again. Ever.
The man gave a grunting laugh.
‘Not yet,’ said Felicite.
‘When?’
‘When I say so.’
‘You’re bad, for taking me.’
‘Don’t be rude. If you’re rude I’ll slap you again.’ She smiled. ‘And you know I don’t want to do that.’
The woman’s voice was thick again and Mary didn’t like it. She didn’t believe the woman wanted to be nice to her. If she wanted to be nice why had they taken her and locked her up and hit her? It didn’t make sense. She didn’t like not understanding what was going on. ‘I’m not rude. And I don’t want to stay here. I want to go home.’
That was better. Mary was being contrary again. ‘Would you like someone to play with?’
Mary frowned. ‘A pet, you mean?’
Felicite hadn’t but they were going to need another identification. ‘Do you have a pet?’
‘A rabbit.’
‘What’s its name?’
‘Billy Boy.’
‘What colour is he?’
‘White, with black ears. And a black leg.’
‘Who’ll be looking after him?’
‘Mom, I suppose.’
‘I didn’t mean a pet to play with. I meant another boy or girl.’
‘Does one live here, in this house?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Yes, I would.’ Nothing bad could happen if there was another boy or girl in the house. Mary felt better. Safer. Perhaps they could become friends and whoever it was might help her get away, like in the books. ‘Is there someone?’
‘We’ll have to see, won’t we?’
Did she mean it? Or was she playing another silly game? She kept talking about games. This might be one of them, making Mary think she could be with someone and then saying she couldn’t. Cheating her. She wanted so much to be home. Home with mom. Cuddling with mom, like mom wanted to do a lot but she didn’t, saying it was silly. She didn’t think it was silly now. She wanted to be with someone who cuddled her. ‘Please let me go home.’