He stepped out. Then frowned, switching on his phone torch. He could see the circular carriage drive, with the lake and broken statue of the cherub beyond. But he couldn’t see their Citroën.
It had gone.
12
Roy did a double-take. He shone his torch around. A near full moon was breaking through ragged clouds, sending an eerie glow, enough to see the driveway was empty. For a moment he wondered, had he come out of the same door as before?
Of course he had.
Someone had moved the Citroën whilst they had been eating. But who? He frowned. So far as he was aware there was only Madame here, with her husband, the Vicomte, in a wheelchair. One of them must have moved it. Where to? Was that why her husband had left the dining room, to very kindly call a garage out? Had he been wrong about their hosts? Had the old man pulled a favour with a local garage and arranged a breakdown truck to come out, after hours, to take the car away and bring it back tomorrow, fixed?
It seemed unlikely, yet this whole strange place was full of surprises. Could it be that their hosts were trying to make amends for Madame having been so rude to them when they first arrived?
The more he thought about it, the more he thought that must be what had happened. But, he worried, if they decided to leave in the morning, when would the car be back?
He turned and looked at the front door, as if he was going to find an answer there. But all he saw were the eyes of the two sinister cats, who had returned and were staring at him. Yellow eyes brighter than before. Was that humour in their faces? Were they mocking him?
Although he was on holiday, for a moment he switched back to being a detective. In all his experience, the most obvious answer was likely to be the correct one. And the most obvious answer right now was that Madame or her husband had called out a breakdown service and they’d towed the car off to fix it in the morning.
But if that was the case, why hadn’t they told him? It made no sense. Then again, they were a pretty weird couple. Was it all part of the service? A nice little surprise? Or, as he had wondered, to make amends?
Should he believe that?
So why did he have doubts, he wondered?
Deciding to find his hosts and ask them, he hurried back inside. Only to find, to his astonishment, that the hall was in pitch darkness. All the lights had been switched off.
Charming, he thought. Without looking for a switch, he used the beam of his torch — the battery marker now on red, 18 per cent left — to guide him to the dining room. There he crossed to the door from which Madame had carried their platters of food. He went in and shone the feeble beam around a large, spotless kitchen. Their hosts had evidently gone to bed — wherever in this vast place their private living area was.
Go to bed, Roy, you’re on holiday. You’re meant to be taking time off, relaxing. Jack will be fine, the holiday voice inside his head told him. He’ll rock up with a perfectly good reason for being so late. All will become clear in the morning!
But what if something’s happened to Jack and he needs to get in touch urgently? the professional voice said. You won’t sleep tonight until you’ve done every single damned thing you can to contact him.
And he knew he had to get a phone signal. Whatever it took.
13
Ignoring the staring cats, Roy let himself back out of the front door and instantly gagged at the awful stink of a dog poo at the bottom of the steps. Using his torch sparingly, the battery steadily ticking down — 17 per cent now — he made his way around the circular driveway, until he found the tree-lined avenue he’d driven up some five hours earlier. The air felt fresher, clearer, with the heady smell of wet grass and leaves.
He stopped, turned off Bluetooth and Wi-Fi on his phone and switched it to low-power mode.
A crackle of feathers right above him startled him, as something flew off into the night. An owl?
He walked fast, occasionally switching on the torch and using the moonlight for guidance, checking for a signal every few minutes. It took a full twenty minutes before he reached the deserted road at the bottom of the drive.
Still no signal.
Then he froze. The sound of something trampling through the undergrowth in the woods to his left. A grunting noise. A snort. Another, closer. He swung the light at it and saw a pair of small, yellow eyes. Staring at him from a huge, hairy head.
A wild boar. Stationary, watching him. He had read, somewhere, about these creatures. How dangerous they were, that they could charge and kill you. He stood his ground, holding the beam steady on its beady eyes. More boldly than he felt, he shouted at it, ‘Make my day, punk!’ and took a step towards it. Followed by another. ‘COME ON, BIG BOY, MAKE MY BLOODY DAY!’
With a wheezy snort it turned and trotted off into the forest.
When he was sure he was out of danger, Roy rebooted the phone, in case it had a glitch. But after it finally came back to life, it still showed no signal. He set off along the road, turning right, retracing the way they had come earlier today, all the time listening out for any more of these creatures.
The darkness of the forest on either side pressed in on him, eerily. But he put it out of his mind, comforting himself with the words he’d always loved and had used as a mantra whenever he was in a scary situation: Yea, though I may walk alone through the shadow of the Valley of Death, I will fear no evil... for I am the meanest son-of-a-bitch in the valley.
After another twenty minutes he stopped and again checked his phone.
Two bars!
Finally, a proper signal.
First, he checked his messages. There was only one new one, from his mate Glenn Branson, wishing him a happy holiday and telling him not to worry about work.
Nothing from Jack. No phone message or email.
Why not?
He called Jack’s number. It rang. Once, twice, three times.
Come on, buddy, answer!
Ten rings and then, ‘Hi, this is Detective Sergeant Jack Alexander. If your call is urgent, please call the Incident Room number at the end of this message. Otherwise please leave me a voicemail.’
‘Jack, this is Roy. Where are you? We’re at the chateau and we’re all concerned as we haven’t heard from you. Call me as soon as you can.’
He ended the call and waited for several minutes in the hope Jack would pick this up. Then another five minutes. He saw lights in the distance. Heard the sound of an engine. Getting closer, the lights brighter. He stepped into the edge of the woods and moments later a small car, travelling recklessly fast, music blaring from a boom box, shot past. Then silence and darkness again.
Now he was even more worried about Jack. Why no message? No word? This was just not like him. He decided to call Glenn to see if he had heard anything from him.
The DI answered almost immediately and good-humouredly. ‘You’re meant to be on holiday, boss. Hope this isn’t about work?’
‘Well, not exactly.’
‘Which means it is about work. We’re missing you but not missing you, so relax — chillax!’
‘Haha! I’m calling about Jack.’
‘Yeah? Isn’t he on holiday with you?’
‘That’s the point, matey. He’s meant to be, but he’s gone AWOL — you haven’t heard from him, have you?’
‘AWOL? Missing? What do you mean? He was going to Paris to meet with detectives there and then coming on to join you, I thought. I’m not expecting to hear from him.’
‘He should have been here at midday and he hasn’t showed up.’