‘I only heard there was going to be one in a telephone call from Poncellet on his way to the television studio! We’re not getting a copy until tomorrow, in time for our cooperation meeting. And that’s the problem I’m trying to make you understand. I don’t know everything they’re doing, not all the time! And not quickly enough.’
There was still ten minutes to go before the special newscast, Felicite saw. She waved the report. ‘You read this?’
‘Of course I’ve read it: I wrote most of it. And it’s you, isn’t it!’
‘It’s a very general description of a woman who is older than me and wears indeterminate blond hair in a chignon.’ Felicite ran her fingers exaggeratedly through the lightly waved hair that fell almost to her shoulders. ‘Which I never do except when I’m choosing someone new: precisely because it will be confusing, if I’m seen. My hair is more golden than blond. The estimate of how tall I am makes me almost into a giant. Cool too. It’s ridiculous. They haven’t even got the car right: it’s dark green, not blue or black. And it’s a 320.’ She cupped her breast with her free hand. ‘And I’m not at all flat-chested: I’ve got nice tits. You like them, don’t you?’
Smet shook his head, although not in answer to her question. ‘This isn’t anything to joke about.’
‘Nor is it anything to wet yourself about.’ She had imagined far more from the man’s garbled rambling and her excitement was going. ‘You told the others?’
‘I wanted to speak to you first.’
Too frightened to do anything by himself, Felicite thought. Or even to be trusted. There could never be any question of Smet going to the authorities. He was too deeply involved, as legally culpable as the rest of them. Which he well knew. But the risk – not a danger by which she was sexually aroused – was in his making a stupid mistake. Unlikely, she reassured herself. Not that he wouldn’t make a mistake – as nervous as he was Felicite didn’t doubt he’d do something wrong – but that it would in any way direct attention towards them. But Smet was still a weak link, useful only because of the position he occupied. Not just weak. Boring, too. Boring like them alclass="underline" as Marcel had complained, just before he died. Maybe she should abandon them, after this. There’d be nothing they could do about it and she had other connections, through Lascelles and Lebron. Moving on, finding new people, was definitely something to think about.
‘It’s time,’ announced Smet, anxiously.
It wasn’t but Felicite turned the television on anyway and was glad because the introduction had already begun, with a clip from the earlier conference at which the ambassador had openly wept. The main newscast anchorman talked over the old footage, announcing a different format. Tonight was not going to be a media event. It was to be a personal appeal, by McBride and his wife, following important new evidence that the Brussels police commissioner would disclose. On that cue the previous conference faded, to be replaced by a screen-filling photograph of Mary Beth McBride which held for at least thirty seconds before cutting to the studio.
McBride and his wife were seated at an oval table, with Andre Poncellet to their right. The three were facing the anchor, an eagerly talking, dark-haired man who spoke in sound bites. To his prompting Poncellet described the eye-witness information as dramatic, sensational, vital, a breakthrough, only just stopping short of predicting an early arrest.
The camera focused tight on the ambassador’s face for the man’s appeal. There were no tears but McBride was grave-faced, Hillary visibly strained beside him. They held hands, although listlessly. McBride’s plea was for private and immediate contact with Mary’s captors.
‘Come on! Come on,’ said Felicite impatiently. ‘Where am I?’
Smet broke away from the screen, frowning curiously at the woman.
‘We want to negotiate,’ McBride was insisting, keeping strictly to Claudine’s instructions, even using the words she’d suggested. ‘But that’s not possible on the Internet. Find another way. Tell us and we’ll follow it: we’ll obey every instruction. Please let us know that Mary Beth is unharmed.’
The camera pulled back again to include the anchorman who used a renewed selection of sound bites to reintroduce Poncellet and the digitalized computer images of Felicite Galan and Henri Cool.
Felicite stretched towards the screen, feeling the sensation return. It was a reasonable impression, she conceded. But not good enough for a positive identification. She’d been made too thin-faced and her nose was too pronounced and elongated, as if it dominated her face, which in reality it didn’t. And the graphic showed her hair pinned right to left, which was opposite to the way she wore it. Henri Cool was made to look much too heavy and again the nose was too pronounced. On the right hand side of each graphic the physical description was printed, making them both much too tall. Pedantically Poncellet recited every statistic.
‘It’s you!’ whispered Smet breathily. ‘It’s definitely you and Henri!’
‘No it’s not,’ snapped the woman brusquely. ‘There’s a resemblance, nothing more. Certainly insufficient to bring anyone knocking on my door. Henri’s either. You’re recognizing us because you know it’s us. That’s altogether different. And the printed description is too vague, as well.’ Abruptly she felt deflated, disappointed. Trying to bring back the feeling she said: ‘See the power we’ve got. How we’re making them beg and plead?’
‘What are we going to do now?’
‘You mean what am I going to do now?’
‘Yes,’ mumbled the lawyer. ‘You.’
‘I’m in no hurry,’ said Felicite. ‘I like a worldwide stage. We’ll change our approach when I feel like it, not because James McBride wants us to.’
‘Let’s get it over with,’ the man implored.
Felicite ignored him. ‘You can write the next message,’ she decided. ‘Make it better than Michel’s: another rhyme, maybe.’
‘I’m doing too much as it is,’ Smet argued. ‘Let someone else do it.’
‘I want you to do it,’ insisted Felicite, ending the protest. She paused. ‘It was a pity there wasn’t time to get to Antwerp and watch the broadcast with Mary: let her see how desperately dependent her big important papa is upon us…’
The telephone jarred into the room, interrupting her. Smet, his nerves stretched, noticeably jumped. Felicite said: ‘It’ll be one of the others, shitting himself like you.’
The expectant smile with which she answered the telephone faded almost at once. It was a very short conversation, with Felicite constantly interrupting. As she replaced the receiver she said vehemently: ‘Damn Charles Mehre!’
‘What is it?’ demanded Smet, in fresh alarm.
‘He’s killed,’ said Felicite shortly.
A television had been installed in the largest of their allocated rooms and they watched McBride’s appeal in silence. When the programme finished Claudine said: ‘I wish I’d had time to brief Poncellet: he exaggerated far too much. But McBride was better than I expected: caught exactly the right note. Even Hillary saying nothing but looking like she did fitted what I wanted, a couple totally at the mercy of those who’ve got their child. They even held hands as I asked them, which they didn’t want to do.’
‘Can you imagine what it’s like!’ said Volker sympathetically.
‘Maybe it’s not enough to reassure them – I might be interpreting it wrongly – but I think Mary’s still alive,’ announced Blake quietly.
Claudine and Volker looked at him, waiting.
‘I thought I’d check the school again: see if anyone had remembered anything, after all the publicity,’ said Blake. ‘It probably wouldn’t have meant anything to Madame Flahaur if it hadn’t been the only call like it she’s had, since Mary disappeared. A woman telephoned two days ago, asking about the curriculum, particularly about the languages that are taught. That’s all she appeared interested in, according to Madame Flahaur. The prospectus she sent out was returned this morning: the address doesn’t exist. Neither does the phone number the woman left: I checked both with Belgacom on my way back.’