‘To see if Mary Beth is featured,’ said Blake bluntly.
The man objected again when Volker rewound both to replay them simultaneously. The German ignored him, exclaiming in satisfied triumph when he freeze-framed both at the meaningless strip of letters and figures that preceded both performances.
‘What?’ demanded Claudine expectantly.
‘They’re identical.’ Volker traced his finger along each matching set of symbols. ‘It’s cryptography: encoding data against unauthorized entry. In this case it’ll be the details of the distributors. It’s the newest and safest way for paedophiles to hide: the current anti-hacking firewall.’
‘Where’s this going to take us?’ asked Harding.
‘To who they are and where they operate from. To all the pornography they’ve got on offer, to see if Mary is among those already featured…’ Volker hesitated, nodding in renewed satisfaction. ‘And hopefully to their subscriber list to see who else in Belgium, particularly in Brussels, is on it as well as Jean Smet.’
The illegal burglaries had been totally justified, decided Henri Sanglier. And all except that of Smet’s house could remain undisclosed. So he was in no career-obstructing personal danger. In fact, as the acknowledged head of the investigating force, there would at the end of the case be a great deal of public recognition. He said: ‘We’ve done extremely well. I’m very pleased.’
Briskly, actually moving towards the door, Harrison said: ‘We could have Mary back by tonight! I’ll tell the ambassador.’
‘You won’t!’ snapped Blake. ‘This is the beginning, not the end. And that could still be a long way off.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
At first, when they left the house, Felicite held tightly to Mary’s hand, but it was difficult for the girl to throw the bread to the screeching gulls hovering against the warm wind so Felicite let her go. The gulls swarmed very close and Mary screamed and laughed, although nervously, finally hurling the remainder of the broken-up loaf in one shower, to send the birds from her. The sun was silvering the water and after so long in the basement Mary still had her eyes screwed up against the brightness: already there was some faint colour coming back to her cheeks.
‘Isn’t this nice?’ said Felicite. She was completely recovered, quite calm: content even. Certainly much better than she had been after talking to Smet. Then she’d been so furious she hadn’t even been able to think properly, her mind jumping from one half-thought to another, nothing in its proper order. It was now; as it always was. Everything worked out, all the uncertainties resolved. There was a lot to do, despite all that she’d already done since the previous day, but there was no longer any hurry.
‘Can I collect shells and things?’ asked Mary, as the disappointed gulls at last left them alone.
‘Don’t go too far ahead.’ There was nowhere Mary could go but Felicite was watchful. Two barges were passing each other in the centre channel of the Schelde but Felicite wasn’t worried. Both were too far away to see any crew so she and Mary would be just as distant: tiny unrecognizable figures.
‘I like my new things. And the u.p.’s,’ said Mary. She was glad she could throw the old, stained pair away. And that the pain in her tummy had gone and there weren’t any more blood spots. She wasn’t sure the woman was telling the truth about her becoming a big girl. The woman told lies.
‘You look beautiful.’ The clothes had been the last things Felicite had bought before leaving Brussels. The red sweater, roll-necked with reindeer in a blue line across the front, fitted perfectly but she’d had to take the jeans up by one turn.
‘Why didn’t you let me come out here before?’ Mary was scurrying by the waterline, turning over debris with a stick. She wondered if mere was a road beyond the rising bank to her right. She couldn’t hear any traffic.
‘There was never time.’ Felicite could only just pick out the closest house, nothing more than a dark shape on the horizon far ahead. There was even less danger from that than from the barges, but they’d still turn back soon. She didn’t want to tire Mary. And she was tired herself: it had been late by the time she’d got to Luxembourg the previous night and she’d had to drive hard to get back to Brussels and do everything necessary there before coming to Antwerp. But it was all going to be worth it.
‘Why is there time now?’
‘I’m going to stay with you: not leave you alone any more. Would you like that?’ How wonderful – magical – to be with her for ever. To travel, just the two of them. A fantasy, Felicite knew. But one she could indulge in, during the next few days. A fantasy that would become her personal Greek tragedy.
Mary frowned up from her beachcoming. ‘How long’s that going to be?’
‘I’m not sure, not yet. A while.’ She couldn’t conceive what it would be like, when it had to end: refused to think about it. All she wanted was for them to be together. Something beautiful. She wouldn’t let there be any pain. She’d have Lascelles do it. Just a pin prick.
Mary suddenly swooped, crying out, coming up triumphantly with her hand above her head. ‘A stone with a hole in it! That’s lucky.’
‘Is it?’
‘Back home.’ Solemnly the child held out her hand. The stone was white, water-bleached. ‘A present, for you. Your own lucky stone.’
Felicite swallowed heavily. ‘Thank you, my darling. I’ll treasure it.’ She would. For ever. Mary was so beautifuclass="underline" so utterly, adorably beautiful.
‘Can I go to see what’s on the other side of the bank?’
‘There’s nothing. Just marsh.’
‘Can I go and look anyway?’
‘There are mosquitoes.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘Stay down here.’
Mary detected the change in the woman’s voice, knowing she had to stop. ‘It is nice, being able to come outside.’
‘I knew you’d like it.’
‘Can we go somewhere else?’ Mary could see a house, a long way off. It looked dark, shuttered. The sun should have been shining off the windows but it wasn’t.
‘What?’
‘As well as here, by the river. Go somewhere else for a walk?’
‘We’ll see.’
‘I’d like to.’
‘We’ll see,’ repeated Felicite. ‘I think we should go back now. We’ve walked a long way.’
‘I’m not tired.’
‘We’ll still go back.’
‘Just a little further?’
‘No!’
There was that sound in her voice again. ‘I don’t want to look for shells or stones any more.’
‘We’re going back,’ insisted Felicite.
Mary reached out for the woman’s hand. ‘When will I go home?’
‘Don’t you like me?’ Mary’s hand was velvet soft, pudgy fingers searching for hers.
‘Yes, now that you don’t hit me.’
‘I won’t ever hit you again. I promise.’
She broke her promises when she felt like it, remembered Mary. ‘Why did you before?’
‘I made a mistake. I’m sorry.’
Mary liked making her feel sorry. There definitely wasn’t any car noise from the other side of the bank so perhaps it was just marsh. ‘So when will I go home?’
Felicite walked for several moments without talking. ‘Would you like to talk to your papa?’ It was a new idea. The bitch who thought she knew so much wouldn’t expect that: wouldn’t expect a lot of what was going to happen. She was a piss-poor psychologist, believing she was frightened of her. Soon prove that was ridiculous.
‘Can I! Can I!’ said Mary urgently.
‘What would you say about me?’
Now Mary remained silent, although not for as long as Felicite. ‘I don’t know. Nothing. Can I speak to him? Please!’
‘Why don’t you want to stay with me?’
Mary flinched at the sudden harshness. ‘I can’t stay with you for ever. You know I can’t.’
‘Would you, if you could?’ said Felicite, allowing the fantasy.
Mary knew the answer was important. ‘Yes, if I didn’t already have a mom and dad.’
The simplistic logic blunted Felicite’s irritation. She wouldn’t be giving in, letting Mary speak to her father: she’d be increasing the pressure. An additional idea began to form. ‘They might try to stop you.’