The Sacred Sword bh-7 Read online

  Nearly four hours had gone by since leaving Calais when Jude stretched, yawned and glanced at a passing road sign for Orleans. ‘My French geography isn’t exactly up to scratch, but as far as I can tell we seem to have passed Paris some time ago.’

  ‘Well spotted.’

  ‘Thought you were planning on leaving me there?’

  ‘That was the plan,’ Ben said. ‘But remember what you said before about me not trusting you?’

  ‘I remember,’ Jude said warily.

  ‘You were right. It seems to me that if I leave you in Paris, the moment my back’s turned, you’ll be haring after me across France. Correct?’

  Jude threw up his arms in protest, then relented. ‘I’ve as much right to find out what’s going on as you have. They were my parents.’

  ‘I understand,’ Ben said. ‘But I’m serious. You stick close by me and do exactly what I say. No more messing around, or I’ll truss you up like a Christmas turkey and you can spend the rest of the journey shut in the boot.’

  ‘You’d do that, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Like I said, we handle this my way. Promise?’

  ‘Promise,’ Jude said reluctantly. ‘Does this military regime extend to stopping anytime soon for a bite to eat? I’m starving.’

  Lunch was a cold ham baguette and a bottle of mineral water at a motorway service station. They said little, and listened to the drumming of the freezing rain on the car roof. Ben used the Laguna’s sat nav to check his route southwards: the motorway would carry them straight down past Bourges and Clermont-Ferrand, cutting through the Auvergne region and the Massif Central, then finally into the Midi-Pyrenees.

  Meanwhile, wheels were in motion and the powerful information-gathering machine that was the Trimble Group was doing its work, sucking in data from contacts most government agencies could only dream of, processing it at light speed and siphoning it directly through the appropriate channels. The encrypted email landed with a little ping on Rex O’Neill’s screen on his desk in Capri at precisely the moment Ben Hope was using his credit card to pay for the rental car at the Hertz office in the Port of Calais. O’Neill opened it and saw the names Hope and Arundel, together with the details and exact times of their clearing passport control into France.

  He had a decision to make. He could either keep this information to himself, refuse to cooperate with the plans of a man he now believed to be a lunatic, or else he could do what his job required him to do and notify his boss that his current number one target had just reappeared on the radar along with a very interesting travelling companion.

  O’Neill stared at the screen for a long time, undecided and wishing fervently that he had never been given this assignment. He reached across his desk, picked up the little framed portrait photo of Megan and gazed tenderly at it for a moment, thinking how beautiful she was and how much he longed to be back in London with her instead of stuck in this gilded cage serving the egomaniacal whims of a man like Penrose Lucas.

  ‘What should I do, Megan?’ he said out loud. There was no reply. Rex O’Neill sighed, then stood up, walked out into the cool sunlight and made his way across the villa complex towards Penrose’s office.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  It was getting on for eight o’clock in the evening as they approached their destination. The rain had stopped, and snowclouds were gathering thickly in the night sky. Ben bought a local map from a service station outside Millau, then drove on a little way to the tiny village of Compregnac where a quick enquiry at a bar-restaurant yielded two key pieces of information: firstly, it provided him with directions to the late Father Fabrice Lalique’s nearby home; secondly it confirmed what Ben had already suspected, that the priest’s name had become virtually unmentionable locally since the child porn outrage had erupted across the media.

  The village of Saint-Christophe nestled at the foot of towering cliffs close to the bank of the River Tarn. The oldest buildings dated visibly back to medieval times, when the village’s population had probably never exceeded a hundred people. Some centuries later, the village had begun to sprawl outwards along the banks of the river, sprouting a latticework of narrow cobbled streets. But Saint-Christophe’s most striking and least picturesque architectural development hadn’t happened until much, much more recently. The illuminated span of the massive, towering Millau Viaduct, cutting across the valley several kilometres away, dominated the entire landscape. As Ben drove around the outskirts of the village, he kept glancing at the distant bridge. Its ugly presence was inescapable, and a constant brutal reminder of what had happened there just weeks earlier. It would be years before the local community would be allowed to forget the scandal of their disgraced priest.

  Less than a kilometre outside the village limits, ringed by an ivy-covered stone wall, was the simple eighteenth-century country residence where the now infamous Fabrice Lalique had spent most of his life. Ben drove the Laguna in through the pillared entrance. He’d half-expected the place to be deserted, but a light in a downstairs window prompted him to walk up to the old house and rap the heavy iron door knocker.

  Several chilly minutes went by before his repeated knocks finally drew the attention of whoever was inside. The door opened, and Ben found himself looking down at a tiny, gnarled old woman in a black gown that did nothing to disguise her dowager’s hump. Her face was as brown and wrinkled as a walnut shell, and its expression was openly hostile. ‘Qui etes vous? Qu’est-ce que vous voulez?’

  Ben told her his name and explained in French that they were very sorry to disturb her at this time of night, but that they were friends of one of Father Lalique’s most trusted colleagues. The old woman seemed utterly unmoved by this, but Ben pressed on, saying that he had a few questions about Father Lalique’s work and that he’d be very grateful for a few moments of her time.

  ‘Allez,’ the old woman rasped. ‘Allez-vous-en!’

  ‘What’s she saying?’ Jude asked.

  ‘That’s French for “piss off”,’ Ben told him.

  ‘I get it now,’ Jude said as the old woman began shooing them away from the doorstep, threatening to call the gendarmes and doing everything but hawk and spit at them. ‘Charming wife this guy had.’

  ‘He was a Catholic priest, Jude. They remain celibate. She must have been his housekeeper.’

  ‘Whatever,’ Jude said, backing away from the ferocious old woman. ‘I think I can grab her, if you find something to tie her up with.’

  Ben looked at him. ‘What do you think I am?’ He graciously thanked the housekeeper for her time, apologised again for the disturbance and said he’d be staying locally for a few days in case she changed her mind. He knew she wouldn’t.

  ‘That wasn’t much use, was it?’ Jude said as they drove off. ‘All this way to be scared off by the priest’s resident bulldog.’

  ‘I don’t blame her,’ Ben said. ‘I’d have done the same, in her position. She’s probably had a million journalists sticking their noses into her life since her employer’s death. She’s alone and vulnerable.’ The truth was that he had every intention of returning to the house, but he wanted to do it alone, and discreetly. His way.

  ‘I’d hardly describe her as vulnerable. So what now, boss?’

  ‘Don’t call me “boss”,’ Ben said.

  The late priest’s housekeeper, Cecilie Lamont, peeked through the window at the disappearing taillights of the car, then tutted loudly in disgust and marched over to the phone to call her elder sister in Perpignan. ‘Can you believe what the world’s coming to, Claudette?’ she complained bitterly. ‘Now it’s two rosbifs coming round here to pry into poor Father Lalique’s affairs. As if there hadn’t been enough injustice done to that man already!’

  ‘You should report them,’ Claudette croaked. She was eighty-seven and full of emphysema. ‘Did you get their names?’

  Cecilie thought for a moment and said yes, the older of the two had given his name — she pronounced it ‘Ope’. Spoke almost perfect French, hardly a tra
ce of accent, and it had only been when they’d started talking English that she’d realised they were rosbifs. They’d told her they were staying nearby, and perhaps she should call her grandson Philippe at the gendarmerie in Millau. Philippe would know how to deal with their kind.

  Cecilie ranted on a while longer about foreigners, then returned to the subject of all the terrible intrusions she was having to endure now that dear Father Lalique was gone. She couldn’t wait until January, when his replacement Father Girard would arrive along with a new housekeeper, and she could finally retire and move to Perpignan to be with Claudette. There was nothing like family, the two sisters agreed.

  After a few minutes, the operative monitoring the phone call from much further away than Perpignan decided he’d heard all that was going to be useful. He turned off his earpiece and let the two old ladies natter on. The details of Madame Lamont’s two foreign visitors were information he needed to relay immediately.

  Earlier that day, the team had acquired the details of the ferry booking made by Ben Hope, minutes after it had been made; just over eight hours ago, they’d learned that Hope and Arundel had cleared passport control into France and duly passed that information over to Rex O’Neill. Since then, the team had been frantically trying to pick up a trace of their targets. Now all of a sudden the trail was live again.

  The operative picked up a phone and quickly stabbed in a number.

  Things would move quickly from here.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The village’s only hotel was the Auberge Saint-Christophe, a medieval inn that seemed to be undergoing its first major overhaul in about seven centuries and was half-hidden behind a tower of scaffolding. The owner was apologetic, but the renovations meant all he could offer Ben and Jude was a small twin room. Sadly the restaurant was closed too, but the owner could heartily recommend Chez Moustache at the other end of the village. Ben took the room anyway.

  The snow was floating down and beginning to line the cobbled streets as Ben and Jude left the Auberge in search of Chez Moustache. They found the old stone building down a winding alley, with a sign that swung in the wind. A battered red Peugeot 504 pickup was parked outside, empty bottle crates littered on the back.

  Ben led the way inside the bar. In contrast to the sleepy street the place was lively, noisy and crowded. He saw right away how it had got its name. The barman was a broad, bear-like character sporting a formidable set of grizzled whiskers that he must have spent the last thirty years pampering.

  ‘Bonsoir, messieurs. Je suis Moustache,’ he welcomed them proudly, the bush parting in a toothy grin. There was a door open behind him leading through to a busy kitchen, two women scurrying here and there amid a lot of steam and smoke, leaping flambee flames and some wonderful odours of frying meat, garlic and shallots.

  Ben asked Moustache if they could cook up a couple of steak-frites for him and his friend. No problem, Monsieur. Ben ordered a whisky aperitif. ‘You want a drink?’ he asked Jude.

  Jude wrinkled his nose. ‘Not one like that. Whisky tastes like shit.’

  ‘Says the connoisseur. I’m sorry they don’t serve Guinness, red wine and vodka cocktails in this place.’

  ‘Ha, ha. I’ll have a beer,’ Jude said.

  ‘Un demi pour le gosse,’ Ben said to Moustache, jerking his thumb at Jude.

  ‘What’s a gosse?’ Jude wanted to know.

  ‘It means a snotty-nosed brat.’

  ‘Oh, thanks. Keep them coming, why don’t you?’

  Some guys at the other end of the bar had picked up on their English conversation and were looking over. One of them was bony and acne-scarred with greased-back hair, slumped on a high stool with his elbows on the counter. Leaning against the bar next to him was a thick-chested, bearded man of about fifty, who wore a heavy chequered work shirt with the sleeves rolled up. They were all knocking back shots of some kind of clear liquor. Whatever bottle it had come from was out of sight under the bar. ‘Eh, les rosbifs,’ Ben heard the bony one call out. The bearded one grinned. Someone else let out a cackle.

  ‘Did that guy just call us something?’ Jude asked, staring back at them.

  ‘He called us rosbifs. Like roast beef,’ Ben explained. ‘It’s one of the kinder terms the French use to describe the Brits.’

  ‘I don’t even like roast beef,’ Jude muttered, maintaining eye contact with the guys at the bar. ‘Hey. You got a problem?’ he said more loudly.

  ‘Take it easy,’ Ben told him. ‘We didn’t come here for a bar brawl.’

  ‘Oh, I bet you never got in a fight in your life.’

  ‘Never once,’ Ben said.

  Moustache had taken in the situation. ‘They’re not bad lads,’ he said in French as he finished pouring Jude’s beer. ‘Just having some fun.’

  ‘I have no problem with that,’ Ben said. Jude picked up his beer and took a gulp. The guys at the bar had lost interest and started chatting among themselves, laughing as they drank their colourless drinks.

  ‘You’re not a tourist,’ Moustache said to Ben with a half-smile.

  ‘No, I live in France,’ Ben told him. ‘I’m here because of Fabrice Lalique.’ Might as well throw it out and see what comes back, he thought.

  Moustache narrowed his eyes and clunked the brimming beer glass down on the bar. ‘You mean Father Lalique?’

  Ben nodded.

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘I know,’ Ben said. ‘I read all about it.’

  ‘Your steaks’ll be ready soon,’ Moustache rumbled, suddenly less than friendly. ‘You want to take a seat over there? Corinne will bring the food over to you.’

  ‘I was just wondering what local people might have thought about what happened to him,’ Ben said.

  ‘He killed himself. He was sick. That’s it. Fini.’

  Moustache seemed about to turn away, so Ben pressed on while he still could. ‘He must have known a lot of people, made a lot of friends around here over the years. Does everyone feel that way? Doesn’t anybody find what happened a little odd, a little out of character?’

  ‘People here have had enough of talking about Fabrice Lalique, okay? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m busy.’

  ‘You know what I think?’

  ‘Monsieur, nobody is interested in what you think.’

  ‘I think a lot of people around here don’t buy the stories about Father Lalique. That’s why I’m here, because I’m looking for the truth about what happened to him.’

  ‘You are from the police? A detective?’

  ‘I’m just a concerned member of the public,’ Ben said. He laid a business card on the bar. ‘This is my number if anyone wants to talk to me.’

  The guys along the other end of the bar had stopped chatting among themselves and were all silent. The bearded one in the work shirt was looking at Ben intently. The expression in his dark eyes wasn’t easy to read.

  The kitchen door swung open and a harried-looking young blonde emerged carrying two steaming plates, calling out shrilly, ‘Deux steak-frites!’ Moustache pointed at Ben and Jude, and then the bar conversation was over as their evening meal was served to them at a corner table.

  ‘What was all that about?’ Jude said through a mouthful of fries.

  ‘Just some basic reconnaissance,’ Ben said.

  ‘You think people round here are going to talk to us? You see their faces whenever you mention his name.’

  Ben glanced at his watch. It was just after ten. He wanted to wait a few more hours before paying another visit to Lalique’s house, in case his defensive housekeeper was in the habit of staying up late.

  While they were eating, Ben noticed the group of men at the bar break up. The bearded guy and Moustache disappeared into a back room together for a moment. When the bearded man emerged, he was counting through a roll of notes with a wetted fingertip. He stuffed the cash in his back pocket, threw a last curious look at Ben, bade goodnight to his pal Moustache and then batted through the door and out into the snow. A few m
oments later, Ben glanced through the window and saw the taillights of the Peugeot pickup disappear up the alleyway.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  After their meal, Ben and Jude headed back to the Auberge and climbed the stairs to the twin room. It was small and basic, but everything worked and it was warm. The twin beds were neatly made and each covered with a hand-knitted woollen spread. Jude flattened himself on the bed nearest the door, let out a loud sigh and closed his eyes. For all his bravado, Ben could tell he was still completely overwhelmed by the events of the last couple of days.

  Ben dumped his jacket on the other bed next to where he’d left his bag earlier, settled himself in an armchair and cast his eye around the room. He liked its simplicity. No television, no radio, no internet connection. No smoke alarm. He liked that too. Civilised. He took out his Gauloises and Zippo. Thumbed the lighter’s flint striker wheel and relished the smell of burning petroleum-based fluid from the flickering orange flame.

  There was nothing quite like a Zippo. Made in Bradford, Pennsylvania, U.S.A. since 1933. Simple, rugged, battle-tested, as timeless and dependable as a Browning Hi-Power automatic pistol. Ben touched the flame to the tip of the Gauloise and tasted the welcome sting of the strong smoke at the back of his throat.

  ‘You shouldn’t smoke so much,’ Jude’s voice came from across the room.

  Ben clanged the lighter shut and took another draw on the cigarette. ‘Why?’ he said.

  Jude shrugged his shoulders against the bedspread, still lying flat on his back with his eyes shut. ‘You’ll die,’ he said simply.

  ‘I’m truly touched by your concern.’

  ‘Who said I was concerned? I just said that people who smoke will die.’

  Ben looked at him. ‘So if I stop smoking, I won’t die?’