The Marks of Cain

40

Simon was standing at a payphone, by a bunch of exiled smokers just outside Gate A of Lyon Saint Exupéry airport. A watery October sun was rising over the terminals. The first planes were rumbling and ascending into the grey morning air.

The journalist weighed the shining euros in his hand. He’d tried calling Suzie through the night but got no reply. Were they safe? Where was Tim? His heart confessed his guilt – with a nasty stab of pain. He’d got some information out of the monk at Tourette, but was it worth it? What if something had happened? Where was Suzie? She could just be at work. But it was so early. And Conor. What about Conor? Where was his mother-in-law? And Tim?

The questions raked his soul.

There was no one left to call. But he’d also tried his parents, and they too were out -

So he had no choice. He had to try the police. Simon stared down at his euro coins. One, two, three…?

Fumbling with the change, he fed the phone. It rang. And it was answered.

‘DCI Sanderson.’

Simon paused – took a breath of diesely air – and then he gabbled his questions. Tim. Conor. Suzie. Conor. Tim.

The policeman interrupted:

‘OK, Quinn, OK. I’m with you. Calm down. Are you on a payphone?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where?’

The doubt crept into Simon’s thoughts.

‘Somewhere in France. I chucked my new mobile. Don’t trust it. Don’t know…who to trust…Tell me what is happening.’

Sanderson said, very gently: ‘They’re fine. Your wife and son…are fine. But…there’s been…developments. Last night. I’m heading into my chief super’s office now. We’ll call you, I promise, in a few seconds. What’s your number?’

‘Developments? Is Conor OK? Have they found Tim?’

‘Conor’s totally fine. Suzie too. Safe as houses. What’s your number?’

Simon swallowed his anxieties; his anxieties had the horrible savour of bile, as if he had recently thrown up. He pressed a finger against his other ear, to drown out the sound of the airplanes. And he spelled out the digits.

‘Wait there,’ said the DCI. ‘I’m talking to the CS right now. Wait there and…trust me?’

Simon nodded and chunked the receiver. He looked at the dull steel payphone.

‘Bonjour…’

He swivelled. An affable-looking French chap, in neat jeans, and a light turquoise cashmere jumper – thrown suavely over his shoulders – was standing behind; the man was gesturing at the phone and smiling.

‘Je voudrais utiliser?’

Simon growled.

‘Go away.’

The man stared at Simon. Perplexed.

Simon growled again.

‘Go away! Merci fucking beaucoup!’

The Frenchman backed away, then actually ran into the terminal.

The phone trilled. Simon picked up.

‘OK -’ Sanderson’s tone was clipped, yet sympathetic. ‘I just wanted to get the latest from CS Boateng.’

‘What are these…developments?’

‘I’ve got extra men looking after your wife and son. And your mum and dad. That’s why they are safe. No one can get to them – these religious geezers, no one. No one can touch them. We haven’t rung you because we are being very careful, after what’s happened…’

The journalist had a cruel sense, at last, where this conversation was going.

The policeman confirmed it.

‘It’s Tim. Simon. Yer brother Tim. Why didn’t you tell us anything about Tim?’

‘I…don’t know…I just don’t know why.’

Simon shuddered with remorse. Tim. Of course. Why hadn’t he mentioned Tim? When Sanderson had asked about family members who could require protection, he had not cited Tim. Why? Was it because he was ashamed of Tim? Or because he just didn’t want to think about Tim? Or because he really thought Tim was safe so it was irrelevant?

Maybe it was all three explanations. Tied into a knot of denial.

‘What’s happened to him? Jesus. Is he…’

‘Not dead. But we know he’s been taken. Kidnapped.’

‘How do you know? Are you sure he hasn’t just run away?’

Sanderson’s voice was dry and cool. ‘Sorry. No. We have proof. They took him.’

‘Proof?’

‘A video. In an email. The captors sent it to everyone late last night. It went to your wife, your parents, and you, I’m guessing. If you get a chance to look at your email. You’ll find it. I suggest you delete first.’

‘Sorry?’ ‘Don’t watch it, Simon. Really. Don’t watch it!’

‘Why?’

‘It’s…bloody distressing.’

A plane was landing, with a malign roar. Simon pressed the phone closer: ‘Are they torturing him?’

‘No. But they are…using him. Manipulating emotions. And they do it well. They want to use your feelings, your guilt, to get at you. He’s their purchase on you. They clearly know you are in touch with Martinez, and Myerson. They will want all this, they want everything you know. Tim is in a lot of danger.’

‘So what do I do now? What can I do? Come home?’

‘No.’

‘Then what?

‘Hide.’

Simon pressed the phone closer to his ear, to make sure he was hearing correctly. ‘Hide? You just want me to…hide out?’

‘Just for now. Yes.’ Sanderson’s voice dropped a few tones. ‘I’m sorry but there it is. You chose to do what you did. You’re out there now. I don’t blame you for that. But…haring across France. Not telling us. Less than brilliant. But you’ve made your decision. And now you’re probably facing a bigger risk if you come back to London. You might be spotted en route, they will expect you to try and find your family. Your friends out there said we can’t trust the police in France, right? So it’s very bleeding tricky. Who knows where they will have people.’ He sighed, fiercely. ‘Main thing is – your wife and son are safe: I can vouch for that. My men are good. And there’s nothing you can do to help us find Tim.’

‘So I stay here?’

‘Stay there, for now, until we work this out. Stay quiet in France or Germany, you can cross the border unseen thanks to Schengen. Lie low. Very very bloody low. You know to use payphones only.’

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t even use the same payphone twice. Call me direct as before…Call Suzie on this special number.’

Simon patted his pockets and found a pen. He wrote the number.

The DCI sighed.

‘Simon…I’m sorry about this. But you should…prepare yourself for the worst. And don’t watch the video. You know how ruthless these bastards are. Speak soon.’

The phone clicked and brrrd. Simon thought of his brother.

I made a dog hope you like it.