The search of Pieter Lascelles’ Eindhoven home, authorized by the Dutch Justice Minister on suspicion of serious crime, produced a substantial amount of paedophile pornography but no clue to Felicite’s whereabouts. Or his. Her dark green Mercedes was discovered garaged at the riverside house but Lascelles’ Jaguar was missing from his home. The registration-linked Dutch national police computer provided the number as well as the make, which was circulated with stop-and-detain orders to all road traffic units in Holland and Belgium.
Confronted in Brussels with the proof that Mary Beth had been in the Antwerp house, Felicite Galan’s paedophile group collapsed into recriminating accusations against her, with the exception of the still deeply sedated Charles Mehre, and any confession he might have made became unnecessary, so full were the frantic admissions of the other five desperate to shift guilt and blame away from themselves.
So desperate were they – Jean Smet seemingly most of all – that Claudine became convinced within an hour of the interrogations’ resuming at the Belgian police headquarters that one if not all would have disclosed an address if they’d known one. Which meant that the lead had to come from them subconsciously. And that she had to recognize it when it did.
It was the once devoted Gaston Mehre who rushed to name his retarded brother as the killer of the Dilbeek victim as well as the previous rent boy, even before being faced with the preliminary forensic comparison matching of what had been found on the decomposing body and the hessian: glue, specialized antique polish and dirt recovered from the basement storeroom of his Schoenmarkt antique gallery in which, additionally, had been found blood from which a DNA comparison was already being made.
Jean Smet eagerly volunteered his misdirecting part as the Justice Ministry liaison during that earlier murder investigation, which surprised Claudine until she accepted that he was virtually setting out his defence to foreseeable criminal charges, acknowledging paedophilia in a country of minimal child-sex sentencing but denying any part in murder. ‘I certainly obstructed justice. But I had nothing to do with that killing. Nor this one. Neither was I in any way involved with the kidnap of the ambassador’s daughter. It was Felicite. Felicite and Henri Cool. From the first day I argued for her to be safely returned.’
Before they’d left Antwerp, Sanglier had drafted a new Europol squad into Eindhoven and Rampling was only thirty minutes behind Claudine returning to Brussels, enabling them to resume their questioning of the ministry lawyer together.
They were briefly hopeful – despite his insistence that Felicite and the child wouldn’t be there – when Smet explained how the groups had protected themselves by not owning secondary property in their country of residence and revealed Felicite’s ownership of a country villa in Goirle. It was locked and shuttered when Europol and Eindhoven police raided it minutes after being alerted.
‘How did you know she wouldn’t be there?’ demanded Rampling.
‘She’s planning a special party. Bigger than anything she’s ever organized before. Goirle is too small.’
‘Is that what Mary Beth was snatched for, a special party?’ asked Claudine. Her concentration was absolute, searching for the smallest tell-tale sign.
Smet nodded, not replying.
‘Is that where she’s gone with Lascelles, to wherever it’s being held?’ asked the American.
‘I’d expect so.’
‘Don’t you know?’ said the disbelieving Rampling.
‘No.’
‘You’re part of her group. Why aren’t you and the others included?’
‘I don’t know about the others. I told her I wasn’t interested. Like I said, I’m not involved.’
A defensive lie, judged Claudine: the disagreement between them had been as serious as she’d guessed. Could that help her? Maybe, if she knew the proper questions. But she didn’t. ‘Who is going?’
The lean-faced man shrugged. ‘Lascelles’ group, I suppose. I don’t know how many. And some French, I think.’
‘Who are the French group?’ pounced Rampling.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Why not?’
‘That’s the way the system worked. Only the people who organize the gatherings know each other. It’s safer, in case anyone gets arrested. They can’t talk about people they don’t know.’
‘How come you know about Lascelles?’ persisted the American.
‘Because of the Antwerp house. I held the spare key.’
‘Is it Lascelles’ group who snatched two children in Eindhoven yesterday?’ There must be something, somewhere!
‘I don’t know anything about what happened in Eindhoven.’
‘Who are the people in Lascelles’ group?’
‘I don’t know any of them.’
‘You’ve had “parties” with them before, haven’t you?’
‘We don’t use names. Usually we wear masks.’
It wasn’t coming, thought Claudine: nothing was coming that she could follow. ‘So you film what happens?’
Smet shifted uncomfortably. ‘Sometimes.’
‘Will this special party be filmed?’
‘I told you I don’t know anything about this special party.’
‘What happens to the films?’
‘They’re kept.’
‘Have you got any, apart from the two in your safe?’
‘How do you know what I’ve got in my safe?’
‘We opened it,’ said Rampling impatiently. ‘Answer the question.’
‘No, I haven’t got any.’
‘Do you know anyone who has?’
‘No.’
‘Who takes the films?’
‘Someone who has a camera. I never did.’
‘How far in advance are these parties planned?’ said Claudine. If something didn’t become obvious soon she’d check the transcripts of the other resumed interviews, seeking her lead there. She tried to push away the frustration, aware it could cloud her judgement.
‘This one took a long time. Months. She wanted it to be better than any before it.’
In a sharp, outside-herself moment Claudine was distracted by the awareness that they were talking in ordinary, low-voiced conversational tones – no one visibly angry, no one visibly offended, no one visibly judgemental – about other adults conspiring sexually, perhaps in other ways too, to abuse children sometimes young enough to need comfort blankets and imagine their favourite bunny rabbit or teddy bear could hear what was said to it. What, she wondered, happened to that imagination when people like Jean Smet and Felicite Galan and all the other stunted freaks finished with them, even if they allowed them to live? Wrong: allowing personal emotion to intrude. If she stood any chance whatsoever – and with the taunting clock inexorably counting off every minute of every hour she was beginning to doubt that she did stand any chance – allowing that sort of intrusion actually put Mary Beth at risk.
‘The host?’
‘Absolutely,’ agreed Smet. ‘She was determined to control the others as she controlled us. She liked disciples.’
Claudine frowned at the biblical analogy, disliking it. Instead she thought of another, unsure in her absence of religion of the accuracy of her recall. It was something about suffer the little children. Reluctant to concede defeat, Claudine said: ‘Tell me about Felicite Galan as a person.’
Smet weighed the question. ‘Arrogant. Needing constantly to be the object of all attention: to be admired, never opposed. Sophisticated. Used to every good thing in life, after being married to Marcel. A hedonist willing – anxious – for every new experience.’
Claudine had been prepared for the man to attempt every possible personal benefit rather than give a truly accurate opinion but decided that he hadn’t. Instead, surprisingly, he’d answered honestly. Curiously she said: ‘You admired her, didn’t you? Maybe you were even physically attracted to her!’
‘She terrifies me,’ confessed the man. ‘I could never lose the feeling that one day she’d destroy me: suck from me every ounce of blood and leave me to rot in her web.’ He gave a bitter snort of a laugh. ‘And she has, hasn’t she?’
Claudine said: ‘Charles would have killed Mary Beth, wouldn’t he?’