‘Have you spoken to my father?’ Mary felt sleepy, as well as dizzy.
‘We’re making plans.’
‘Honest?’
‘Honest.’
‘Please let me go.’ It was very hard, not to cry.
‘You haven’t showered for two days.’
‘No.’
‘It was very hot today.’
‘Not down here.’
‘I should shower, too. Shall we shower together?’
‘No.’
‘We’re both girls, aren’t we?’
‘You’re grown up.’
‘So are you, drinking wine.’
‘I suppose.’
‘Then it’s all right, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I’ve seen you with no clothes on.’
‘I know.’
‘You don’t mind seeing me with no clothes on, do you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Haven’t you ever bathed with mama?’
‘Not since I got big.’
‘Why don’t we try?’
‘You won’t hit me? Make me jump for the towel?’
‘No, I promise,’ said Felicite, her voice thicker now.
‘You broke your other promise.’
‘I won’t break this one.’
‘All right.’
‘Let me help you,’ offered Felicite.
Neither Henri Cool nor Gaston Mehre had seen the television appeal. Both had listened horrified, Cool open-mouthed, to Smet’s repeated and much more detailed account after Felicite left.
‘Was I recognizable?’ demanded the schoolteacher.
‘I think so,’ said Smet. ‘She said not: that it was because I knew it was the two of you.’
‘What am I going to do!’
‘Decide for yourself,’ said Smet. ‘They’ll be shown tonight on the late news programmes. And in the papers tomorrow.’
‘Oh, dear God!’ moaned the man, hurrying to the drinks tray.
Charles Mehre came back into the room, standing uncertainly by the door. He said: ‘He’s downstairs. I covered him up.’ The other men said nothing and Charles went back to the chair in which he had sat earlier.
‘It’s a mess,’ complained Gaston. ‘Everything’s a total mess. And getting worse. And there’s no way we can get out.’
Smet was still looking at Charles. He said: ‘Felicite’s right about the whore. There won’t be a big investigation into his disappearance: even into his killing, when the body is found.’
Cool returned with a refilled whisky glass, his hand shaking. ‘That’s not our problem.’
‘I know,’ said Smet, coming back to the two men. ‘It’s the girl, and she’s only a problem as long as she’s alive. Dead – cleaned against any forensic examination and properly disposed of – there’d be nothing to link her to us.’
Neither Cool nor Gaston spoke immediately.
Cool said: ‘You’re right. It’s what I wanted from the start.’
Gaston said: ‘Who?’
Smet looked back to the man’s hunched brother. ‘Would he, if you told him to?’
‘She’d be furious,’ said the antique dealer.
‘What’s worse, our being caught or Felicite bloody Galan being angry over something it would be too late for her to do anything about?’
‘We should talk about it with the others first,’ said Gaston.
‘Why?’ asked Cool. ‘Let’s get the whole damned thing over and done with.’
‘We’re a group. We rely on each other: protect each other,’ said Gaston. ‘They should all agree.’
‘You’re trying to avoid it,’ accused Cool.
‘You do it yourself then!’ demanded Gaston at once, seeing his escape. ‘I agree we have to get rid of her! But don’t use Charles. Or me, to make him do it. Kill her yourselves. Dispose of her yourselves, the way I’ve got to dispose of Stefan.’
There was another long silence. ‘Let’s talk to the others,’ agreed Smet finally.
‘They won’t do it either,’ Gaston said. ‘Not themselves. It’s always been Charles.’
‘Someone’s got to,’ insisted Cool.
‘What are you talking about?’ asked Charles from his corner.
‘Nothing,’ said Gaston. ‘Don’t get upset: I’ll look after you.’
For the first time since they’d arrived in Brussels Kurt Volker ate with them – at the Comme Chez Soi on the Place Rouppe, another first – and proved to be an unusual dinner companion. He dominated the conversation with cyberspace through-the-keyhole anecdotes of peccadillos, foibles and downright carelessnesses of the rich and unrich, famous and infamous, ordinary and extraordinary. Mostly with the people he spoke about, it was extraordinary.
When Blake said so, actually using the word, Volker said: ‘Who’s to judge extraordinary?’ and Claudine, impressed, said: ‘He’s right. Psychologically – mentally – there are no criteria for ordinary. So no one can be extra ordinary, can they?’
‘What about the people we’re investigating?’ said Blake. ‘Aren’t they extraordinary?’
‘The point is that paedophiles convince themselves – actually believe – that they are ordinary. That it’s normal to have sex with children. And if I forget for a moment that we’re hunting people who think their sexual preferences are perfectly natural, we’re going to lose Mary.’
‘What if you get to them?’ demanded Blake urgently. ‘What will you be feeling and thinking if you get to negotiate one to one, in some way?’
Claudine was surprised by the question, disconcerted by it. ‘I’d suspend any personal judgement. Revulsion, contempt, would come through, and I can’t afford that. More importantly, Mary can’t afford that.’
‘You’ve never negotiated a kidnap before: certainly not a paedophile kidnap,’ Blake said solemnly. ‘Can you do it?’
‘I won’t know until I try,’ Claudine conceded, wishing she hadn’t been confronted by such a direct question. Peter’s attitude had, in fact, confused her from the very start of the evening. He’d appeared tense, unaccustomedly ill at ease, and for want of any other explanation she’d put it down to Volker’s unexpected presence, although that could scarcely be considered an intrusion. Peter, she suddenly thought: she’d obviously called him that, from the beginning, but until now had distanced him in her mind by using his surname. It was an unimportant reflection, she decided: like thinking that Blake’s attitude tonight was any different from what it had been on the previous nights.
Volker worked hard to restore some lightness with further stories of a marauding cyberspace Robin Hood (‘to benefit the good and defeat the bad’) and Claudine enjoyed the change from the Grande Place restaurant.
Volker turned out to have a low tolerance but great liking for alcohol and became heavy-eyed, thick-tongued when he retold two of his best stories. Blake had the restaurant order them a car, rather than hail a street taxi. Volker, between them in the back seat, fell almost immediately asleep. Blake sat supporting the man with his arm along the back seat exactly, Claudine realized, as the blond-haired woman had sat enticing Mary into the Mercedes. He stayed like that for most of the time, half facing Claudine. When, on two occasions, she looked pointedly across the car towards him, he turned away to stare through the rear window.
They both had to help the German to his feet on the Place de Brouckere. It brought Blake and Claudine close together and Blake said quietly: ‘Let me in when I come to your room.’
‘No!’
‘Do it!’
They ascended without speaking in the open-grilled elevator, the half-asleep German leaning amiably between them. Claudine stared fixedly at Blake, who looked back expressionlessly. Volker’s floor was below hers and as Blake helped the German out she again said: ‘No!’
Blake ignored her.
Inside her room Claudine put the dead bolt across the door as well as double locking it. She was confused. Offended, too. She wouldn’t let him in. What right did he think he had – what right did any of the bastards at Europol have – to think every woman was going to roll over on her back and open her legs, grateful to be fucked! Disappointment joined her other feelings. Peter – Blake, she corrected herself at once – was attractive: considerate, attentive, fun to be with. In other circumstances – a lot of other circumstances, chief of which had to be the exclusion of Hugo – she might have been drawn to the man. But not like this: not with the slam-bam-thank-you-ma’am cowboy approach.