By the time Claudine reached the embassy the surveillance had already been organized and in Brussels was in place. Sure of their target and knowing from Smet’s panicked telephone call that Gaston Mehre was at home over his gallery in Antwerp’s Schoenmarkt, Harding assigned a thirty-man squad to put the antique dealer under total observation.
The lawyer’s call to Felicite Galan, while identifying her from the number, had rung out unanswered. It was again McCulloch and Ritchie who led the operation in Boulevard Anspach. Watchers were positioned outside as before, to warn of the woman’s unexpected return, separate from the evidence-collecting ‘floaters.’ In addition there were four CIA agents, all women, two with paramedic qualifications, if Mary Beth were found to be imprisoned in the house.
She wasn’t.
It was the first and immediate disappointment after McCulloch and Ritchie immobilized the rear-mounted, out-of-date alarm box with instant setting foam and picked the rear door lock.
The two men varied their routine in their immediate search for the child, both looking initially for basement cells before quickly working upwards, room by room. At the same time as McCulloch reported failure on his mobile phone he said that from the disarray and cast-aside clothes in Felicite’s bedroom and en suite dressing room – as well as an open-doored cupboard in which suitcases were stored – she’d obviously packed and left in a hurry. He and Ritchie were reverting to routine: some proxile copied material, including bank statements, was already being ferried back. Again they hadn’t found an address book.
Kurt Volker deputed himself, without argument, to collate what came from the house.
Rosetti got to the embassy by mid-morning. For the benefit of the entire group he repeated what he’d earlier told Claudine, adding that around the anal area and stuck by body fluid to the hessian he’d found four red-pigmented pubic hairs, obviously not those of the auburn-haired victim, from which the killer could be identified by DNA comparison. The body was too decomposed for any semen trace to have remained. There was no dental work from which the victim could be identified from orthodontic or dental records and although quite a substantial amount of the face was intact he thought a model reconstruction from skull and facial bone formation would be necessary if they wanted to issue a picture appeal. A mouth impression of the killer was possible from at least two of the bite marks. No effort had been made to clean the body and there were a lot of forensic tests still to be carried out. No one commented on the quickly developed photographs of the boy that Rosetti circulated.
Harding was actually remarking that antique dealers used hessian to wrap sale items – and specialized glue for repairs – when the first contact came from Antwerp. None of the combined FBI and CIA team had yet entered the premises as purchasing American tourists – the prepared cover – but from external observation there appeared to be two men working there. Both had red hair and from their facial similarity were clearly related.
‘The hessian will match that in the shop, as well as the hair,’ predicted Harding. ‘So we’ve got ourselves a couple of murderers. One at least.’
The still unknown executive at Belgacom was the first caller, just after eleven, to be picked up on the agonizingly limited microphone in Smet’s office. The lawyer did most of the talking, as he did on the three subsequent and connected calls, and a murmur of anticipation went round the listening group at the repetition in every one.
‘My house tonight. Seven.’ To the man they now knew to be Gaston Mehre, he added: ‘It’s desperate. Terrible.’
Harding had already phoned the controller of the Antwerp squad, giving the time when the shop would be empty that night. By then the search of Boulevard Anspach had been completed, listening devices installed in every room and telephone and all documentation McCulloch and Ritchie considered relevant copied and returned to where they had been found. There were thirty CIA and FBI agents dispersed around the house and along every road feeding into it.
Smet didn’t dominate the conversation when Felicite Galan called. He told her about the discovery of the body and in reply to her obvious question said: ‘I don’t know if we’re going to meet this afternoon! The bastard wouldn’t say what was so important about what they’d found! Just that it was good. Important. I’m going to try Poncellet if they go on saying they’re too busy.’
There was a long period of silence, interspersed with grunts and single-word agreement. Towards the end Smet complained: ‘I know they’re stupid. It’s too late now: too late for anything.’ To her unheard response to that, he said: ‘Kill myself.’
His final words were: ‘Please, I’m begging you… I can’t help it… do it now…? When…? Now, it’s got to be now…’
They were careful to keep the sequence in the proper order. Blake told Poncellet there appeared to be a useful amount of forensic clues connected with the body find that wouldn’t be analysed in time for any meeting that afternoon. Further contact from the woman in any case had priority. He said exactly the same to Smet, promising to call him again at the office or even at home that evening if there was any development. They all listened to Poncellet accurately recount his conversation with Blake to the other Belgian when Smet reached him.
‘It looks as if things are moving at last,’ said Poncellet.
‘They haven’t told you what it is?’
‘No.’
Felicite did call McBride. Her attitude – her tone of voice even – was totally different from what it had been on any previous occasion. Claudine tried to involve herself – although not goading, alert to the change and careful to avoid antagonizing her – but the woman told her, without anger, to get off the line. Claudine did. After her earlier debacle, Hillary didn’t attempt to grab the telephone.
‘It’s a million.’
‘I know,’ said McBride.
‘It’s ready?’
‘Yes.’
‘Cash?’
‘Yes.’
‘Deposit it at a branch of Credit Lyonnais. You choose which. Tomorrow, precisely at 11 a.m., I’ll give you a bank and an account number into which it’s to be transferred. If it’s not in the account I designate by 11.30 a.m. Mary Beth will be killed. Understood?’
‘No, wait…
‘Shut up! You there, Claudine?’
‘Yes.’
‘Pay attention and you’ll learn how a ransom exchange can be made to work.’
The line went dead. The scanner failed to isolate the source of the call. It was, the technicians later insisted again, because it had been long distance, nowhere within the city limits.
In his study McBride looked sideways to Claudine and said: ‘She didn’t sound the same.’
‘No,’ agreed Claudine. It wasn’t right: not right at all.
‘Am I going home?’ asked the child, urgently, as Lascelles entered the beach house.
‘Yes. But you’ve got to be very good,’ said Felicite.
‘I will be. Honest I will be.’ She smiled up at Lascelles and said: ‘Hello.’
‘Hello.’
‘Are you going to take me home?’
‘Both of us,’ said the man.
‘Can I wear my new clothes?’
‘Yes,’ said Felicite. ‘But hurry.’
‘Why are you crying?’
‘I’m not crying. The wind flicked my hair into my eyes.’ She’d actually been hoping the Luxembourg lawyer would tell her mat the bank chain hadn’t been established.
As they got into Lascelles’ car Felicite said, in French: ‘You’re quite sure it won’t hurt?’
‘Positive. Pills will be best. For all of them.’
‘Mary Beth first,’ insisted Felicite. ‘I want to be the one to do it. It’s got to be me.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX