Death at the Clos du Lac

CHAPTER THIRTY

Her mobile prison had moved again.

After an interminable period of inactivity, with no sounds to connect to the outside world, Leather Jacket had opened the door and told her to lie down. Moments later, the engine had started and they had rumbled over what seemed like a patch of rough ground, before picking up speed. She had lost track of time, slipping between wakefulness and fractured sleep, her head spinning as if she were drunk. Then the van had slowed and stopped, and the engine had been turned off.

Silence.

She had waited a long time before hearing footsteps. The door had opened and Leather Jacket had placed a cardboard box on the floor by her side. She had leant over and felt the contents. It held fruit, bread and a plastic bowl of what smelt like rice and vegetables. She was becoming quite adept at telling what she had by smell and touch, she thought. Much more of this and she’d know what was coming before it reached her.

‘What time is it?’ The question came without thought, a touch of normality, as if she had woken alongside her husband on a normal day and all was well with the world. She went hot, oddly embarrassed at sharing such an intimate moment, although she doubted Leather Jacket would have made the connection. She had the distinct impression, although she could have been wrong, that there was no Mrs Leather Jacket waiting at home for him.

‘Early,’ he said shortly. ‘Or late. What’s the difference?’

She nodded, and felt for the bottle of water in the box. What difference indeed? Late or early, she was always thirsty in this bloody cell. As her fingers found the smooth shape of the bottle, she paused. Her stomach jumped.

Toothpaste. She could smell fresh toothpaste on his breath. And the air coming in from the outside was cool and moist.

Signs of morning.

She smiled inside her hood. It was only a small victory — a tiny one in the grand scheme of things. But to her, right here and now, an important one.

‘What’s up — not hungry?’ the man demanded, misinterpreting her hesitation. ‘I can take it away if you like, throw it in the hedge. It’s all the same to me.’

Hedge. Was that another clue? Were they near a park?

‘No. Leave it, please. I’m stiff, that’s all. I need time to loosen up.’

There was a familiar clank as he placed an empty bedpan on the floor, and she heard him grunt as he lifted the one she had used, then backed out of the van, closing the door behind him.

She no longer felt any embarrassment at the deeply personal nature of the exchanges. Since he had chosen to put her through this, he could put up with the indignity of handling her soils twice a day. She had even developed, after the initial desire to scream with frustration, an ability to deal with her panties and stockings as efficiently as her constraints allowed, while blind and bound and trying not to spill the bedpan as it filled. At least the man had finally agreed to untie her legs, which had helped. And at least, she decided, if his mind had ever veered in that direction even for a moment, he surely couldn’t feel anything like a physical interest in her. Not now.

She ate an apple and nibbled at the rice and vegetables, sipping water to help it down. Her throat was still raw, but not as bad as after the first day. She was adjusting. She wondered if she was becoming institutionalised. And what her husband was doing. He must be going out of his head.

As usual, the man had given no explanation as to why they had moved again earlier, merely saying that she should lie down and be ready. She had done so at once; small rebellions or demands were sensible in her view, to at least demonstrate in a small way that she was no weeping wallflower. But allowing herself to become injured through her own stupidity was ridiculous. Besides, she was still waiting for that slight chink in his armour, that little gap that might allow him to say something that would tell her where they were and what they were going to do with her.

But there had been one development: she had heard a conversation between the two men, this time from the other side of the bulkhead panel between the back of the van and the driver’s cab. It had been brief but revelatory.

‘… had orders to move … a nosy cop coming to see why we’re … here.’ It had sounded like Leather Jacket, although she couldn’t be certain.

‘At last. Getting fed up with … glad to get rid … no longer our problem.’

‘… we must do … handover … don’t want them sending that crazy legionnaire bastard after us.’

They stopped talking. Moments later the van rocked slightly and the rear door opened. It was Leather Jacket.

‘I have something for you,’ he said. She heard the hiss of released gas and the glug of liquid. He was pouring her a drink. He took her hand and pressed a bottle into it. It was cold and pear-shaped, with beadings of moisture down the sides. She recognised the smell of citrus. ‘Freshly opened,’ he told her. ‘Frankly, I got sick of seeing you drink tepid water.’ He loosened the drawstring on the hood and held a cup to her mouth. She felt the glorious liquid fizz across her tongue and down her throat, and threw all caution to the wind. It was such a relief she nearly cried. She gulped the rest like a child given a rare treat.

Soon they were on the move again. The earlier exchange between the men had told her very little, save that they, Leather Jacket and the driver, were scared of somebody — and it wasn’t the police. Whoever they answered to, she decided sleepily, laying back and feeling her eyes begin to close, it sounded as if he would not put up with failure.

She yawned and wondered who the crazy legionnaire was. Maybe Robert, who knew some very strange people with dangerous eyes and quiet manners, had some even crazier legionnaires who might get her out of the living hell she was in.

It was only as she found herself drifting off that she realised the noise and movement of the van were receding, leaving her with a dull, drifting sensation, and the citrus drink had left her with an unusually bitter aftertaste in her mouth.