“So what’s our route?” asked May.
“We make our way to Hammersmith and get onto the M3 as far as Winchester, then head for Salisbury and Yeovil on the A30, switch to the A303, past Exmouth and Newton Abbot, skirt the southern edge of Dartmoor on the A3 8 and hit Plymouth by teatime. If we’re running ahead of schedule, we could visit my Auntie Dolly in Weymouth. She just had her telegram from the queen, and still does her own shopping, although some of the things she comes back with take some explaining.”
“AH right, I’ll handle the M3 and you can take the back roads. Let’s find a garage first. No doubt you’ll want to stock up on boiled sweets.”
“No, I’ve taken to buying them wholesale. I’ve got a pound of Rhubarb and Custards in the back, some Jelly Tots, and a half of Chocolate Limes. Do you want a Pear Drop?”
“No, acetone takes the roof off my mouth. You think Janice can manage looking after the PCU? We’ve never left her in charge before.”
“She’ll probably be better than you or I,” Bryant told him. “We’ll only be away for a couple of days. What could go wrong in that time?”
“What about April? Do you think she’ll be all right? I mean, now that we’ve talked about her mother’s death.”
“I don’t see why not. For heaven’s sake, stop fretting about everyone.” Bryant’s thoughts were generally so abstracted that he found it hard to empathise with other people’s personal problems. “April can call you if there’s anything on her mind. Put your foot down, I have my heart set on a pint of scrumpy tonight.”
May turned the ignition key. There was a grinding noise beneath the hood, then a peculiar squeaking sound.
“Wait!” Alma came running out. “Open the bonnet!” May did as he was told, and the landlady reappeared from beneath the hood with an armful of mewling kittens. “They were keeping warm under there. I’m minding them for a neighbour.”
This time, the van started.
“I’m sure I’m going to regret this,” muttered May as he pulled out into the peristaltic column of traffic passing slowly through Chalk Farm.
“Look at it this way,” said Bryant, leafing through pages of villages that no longer existed. “For the next three days you won’t have to think about solving a single crime.”
11
“Come with me, I want to show you something.”
“Are you sure it’s safe?” Madeline asked. “Isn’t it private property?”
“A rich old guy used to own it, but he died. Now some Swiss property developers want to turn it into a hotel, but the mayor won’t allow them. He’s probably holding out for a bigger bribe, and until he gets it, the place stays empty. Give me your hand.” He outstretched his arm and hauled her onto the granite wall beside him. “Be careful of this plant,” he warned, indicating the purple bougainvillea that had overgrown the garden of the chateau. “It has pairs of sharp thorns.” He placed his hands around her waist and lifted her into the long grass. “The ground slopes down to the sea. Hold onto me.”
The sun had just sunk behind the cliffs, and Ryan had passed out in his hotel room, exhausted after a day spent racing up and down the shingle beach with Johann. Madeline allowed Johann’s hand to stay on her waist even after she had steadied herself.
The chateau’s vermilion tiled roof had partially collapsed.
Olive trees and agaves had broken through the plaster on the ground-floor walls. The grand old house had been empty for many years. Between the pines and date palms she could glimpse an indigo triangle of ocean. Rotting tangerines littered the grassy slope. Their sharp citrus scent made her mouth water.
“Over here, you have to see this.” He pushed back the branches and allowed her to climb through. There, in a small clearing behind the chateau, was a white stone summerhouse, its roof decorated with stencilled fleurs-de-lis clipped from green tin. A band might have played there on warm summer evenings. He climbed up the steps of the rotunda and swayed from side to side, his head tilted. “Listen, you can almost hear the accordion playing.”
“I don’t hear anything.” She laughed, joining him.
“No, really, there is music all around us. There are ghosts in the trees. Look.” He pointed upward and she smiled in surprise. “Fireflies. They always gather here at dusk.”
“How do you know this place?” she asked.
“I came here as a child. I was forbidden to visit the chateau-the old man was still living here then. He was a wealthy member of the old Monaco family, a genuine Grimaldi, but-‘ He tapped the side of his head. ”Crazy, you know? One day I found a crack in the wall and climbed through. My mother could not find me. It became my secret place. Everyone needs such a place, where they can be alone with their thoughts.“
In London she was hardly ever alone, passing her days in the steam of tumble dryers and nights in the warm beery fug of the bar, rushing from the Laundromat to pick Ryan up from school or coming in at midnight to release her neighbour from guardian duty. She had never made enough time for herself. Now, though, perhaps there was a chance. She picked up his hand and held it in hers. They sat beside each other on the dusty bandstand floor, and he lightly touched the nape of her neck with tanned fingers. Great grey-blue clouds hung low, leaving a golden ribbon of light above the line of the sea. Their backs prickled with cold. He wanted to give her his jacket, but she refused.
“Let’s go back, Johann.”
“It is early yet. I think one day I will come to your hotel and you will have moved back to England.”
“Then let’s not go to my hotel. Ryan will be fine for a while. Let’s go to your place.”
His hesitation made her wonder if she’d been too forward, but she had not felt a man’s touch for a long time, and she sensed a need in him matched by her own. Finally he seemed to reach an agreement with himself and rose, hauling her to her feet. They climbed back to the car, and headed away from the Basse Comiche into the hills. High in the Savaric cliffs the roads were covered with plumes of gravel, stones washed down from the rocks above. Gradually the route narrowed, until it was little more than the width of a car. He stopped before a tall steel gate, tucking the Mercedes beneath the overhanging pine boughs, and helped her out. The long-stemmed birds-of-paradise surrounding the house had lost their tough orange petals, but the plant borders had been meticulously maintained. No lights showed in the single-storey building of peach stucco that lay ahead.
There was something clandestine about his behaviour, and she was compelled to ask, “Are we supposed to be here?”
“It’s fine, really, it’s not a problem. The house belongs to an old friend who only stays between June and September. The rest of the year it’s empty. He let me have the keys. Come on.”
He had trouble remembering where the lights were, and then only turned on one of the lamps in the lounge. The walls were covered with stag antlers. There were a pair of leather wing-backed armchairs and a bearskin rug on the floor that she suspected had been cut from creatures tracked by the owner. She smelled pine and polish and old leather. It was hard to imagine that a young man like Johann would know anyone who lived in this way; this was an old hunter’s house. He left the window shutters closed, and flicked on a gas fire filled with artificial logs.
While she warmed herself, he found cut-crystal glasses arranged on a walnut drinks cabinet and poured out two brandies. “Soon I think the snows will come,” he told her, “even here.”
“And I’ll have to go back home,” she admitted. “The first part of my support money came through today. I was expecting more, but it’s enough for me and Ryan to live on for a little while.”
“So you will stay?”