Present Danger

38

The winter mistral was blowing strongly at Marseilles airport as Martin Seurat waited with Isabelle for her colleague to bring the car round from the car park. Isabelle was shivering beneath her raincoat. She had left behind her customary scruffy garb of oversized fisherman’s sweater and jeans and was dressed smartly in a short skirt and cashmere cardigan.

Seurat had decided at the last minute to join Isabelle on her visit to Toulon, though strictly speaking he should have left it to her – this kind of domestic investigation was not the business of his service. But he had been stirred into action by the intriguing phone call from Liz Carlyle. This was the first firm lead in a long time that might put Milraud away. But if he was honest with himself, he’d also taken the trouble to come down to Provence because he had been so taken by his lunch with the British woman. She’d struck him as straightforward, clever and amusing, but with a sort of modesty too. It was an unusual combination of qualities and he found it, and her, very attractive. He hoped he would see her again.

Martin Seurat had been an intelligence officer a good long time and he had recently had to admit to himself that the adrenalin was beginning to run thin. He’d been wondering if it was time to leave his service and look for some other career that might put the spark back into his life. Not that he had any idea what that might be. But today, standing in a cold wind on a Saturday morning, he realised with some surprise that he felt excited. He was excited at the prospect of catching up with his old colleague, Antoine Milraud. He wondered if he had changed. He’d always sailed close to the wind but it looked as if this time he’d gone right over the line and got himself involved in kidnapping or murder – at present it didn’t seem clear what it was – and of a British intelligence officer too. This was so out of character that Seurat was convinced there was more to it than met the eye. And it was the prospect of finding out what that was, as well as working closely with Liz Carlyle, that was stirring him into life again.

For fifty kilometres or so the motorway to Toulon cut along the side of the coastal hills, white outcrops of rock pushing their way through the thick vegetation of pines and eucalyptus. From time to time the Mediterranean came into view, sparkling blue, dotted with white crested waves stirred up by the fierce mistral. Within the hour they were driving into Toulon, past the big iron gates of the Naval Headquarters and the Prefecture Maritime and along the rue de la République to the big car park on the quayside, busy with shoppers, attracted in by the Saturday market.

Leaving their driver with the car, they crossed the rue de la République and strolled through the Place Louis Blanc with its tall blue and grey shuttered eighteenth-century houses, into the market which was still in full swing. The avenue of plane trees that would shelter the market from the sun in summer was without leaves and the canvas canopies covering the piles of vegetables and brown bowls of North African delicacies were blowing in the wind.

As she paused to sample an olive, Isabelle said, ‘Do you think it’s likely Milraud has come back here?’

‘It’s possible. Though our British colleague said she thought it unlikely.’

‘Ah. The charming Mademoiselle Carlyle?’ she said, with the faintest hint of amusement.

‘Yes. The officer from MI5 you sent to see me. It’s she who wants to know Milraud’s whereabouts.’

‘Ah,’ said Isabelle. ‘You explained the MI5 urgency, but I hadn’t realised it was the same officer. They’re sure Milraud is linked to their missing colleague?’

‘She sent a message yesterday saying that it looked that way. Something unexpected must have happened. Milraud has done a lot of bad things in recent years, but he is always careful. It makes no sense for him to get involved in this.’

‘There’s a woman in charge at his shop – I had a local officer look into it. Her name is Claire Dipeau. We should find her there now, but I doubt she’ll tell us anything.’

Seurat shrugged. ‘I expect you’re right. But we’re sure to learn something. It’s worth taking the trouble.’

‘To show the British we’re trying to help?’ Isabelle could not suppress her cynicism.

‘It’s not just that. I’m sure you’d agree we’d all be quite keen to put Milraud away. It may be that MI5 are doing us a favour, rather than the other way around.’

Isabelle picked an almond from a plate on a stall and said thoughtfully, ‘I find it surprising that Milraud would choose this town for his base.’

‘Why? Not exotic enough?’

‘The file says he grew up in Brittany, so it’s not as if he had roots here. And yes, not exotic enough. From your description of the man, he sounds more Saint-Tropez than Toulon.’

‘It’s pleasant enough here,’ said Seurat. ‘Maybe he finds it a convenient port for his business. Not as heavily policed as Marseilles, close to North Africa. It has its advantages. But I don’t expect him to show up here any time soon – not if he’s involved in the disappearance of this MI5 man.’

‘So let’s call on Madame Dipeau before she closes for lunch. If we turn down here we’ll come into the top end of the rue d’Alger, where the shop is.’

At the shop, Seurat held open the heavy oak door for Isabelle and followed her into the long dark room. Behind a counter at the far end a white-haired woman in a black jacket and long skirt was polishing a beautifully chased metal scabbard with a cloth.

Madame Dipeau, thought Seurat. She looks very respectable. Clever of him – no one would suspect that a woman of mature years, formidable demeanour and decorous dress would be colluding in anything shady.

The woman looked up and nodded politely, then greeted them in the strong nasal tones of the region. ‘Bonjour m’sieurdame. En vacances?’

‘No. We were hoping to see Monsieur Milraud.’

The woman shook her head sadly, as she put the cloth and scabbard down on the counter’s glass top. ‘Pas possible. Monsieur is away.’

Seurat said, ‘Really? When we spoke on the phone he mentioned a trip to Ireland, but he said he would be back by now.’

She replied quickly, ‘He called to say he would be away longer than planned.’ Her expression made clear that this was a matter of indifference to her.

‘Was he still in Ireland when you spoke to him?’

‘I don’t know where he was, monsieur. I did not enquire.’ Madame Dipeau spoke sharply, making it clear she didn’t question her employer about his whereabouts, and that by implication neither should Seurat.

‘Possibly Madame Milraud would know where we can find her husband,’ suggested Isabelle. The woman gave an elegant shrug and did not reply. ‘Do you have an address and perhaps we could call on her?’

‘I am not authorised to give out personal information, madame,’ she replied coldly.

‘Even if we are old friends of the Milrauds?’

Madame Dipeau raised both hands palms upwards to show that she remained unable to help.

There was a pause. ‘You’re right – we’re not old friends,’ said Isabelle, speaking brusquely now, fishing in her bag and producing a warrant card. ‘Nor new ones, either. But I suggest you give us the home address of Monsieur Milraud right away. Otherwise, in ten minutes I will have the gendarmerie here. Not to mention an inspector of taxes, who will wish to inspect every item in your inventory, go through all your records, see every invoice, check every bill that’s been paid. I am sure when Monsieur Milraud eventually returns to find such a thorough investigation, he will be pleased that he’s left his business in such safe hands. C’est compris, madame?’

The woman looked long and hard at Isabelle. She said nothing but reaching for a pad from behind the counter wrote down an address and pointedly handed it to Seurat.

‘Bandol,’ he said with a charming smile, reading the address. ‘Antoine has certainly come up in the world. Merci beaucoup, madame.’ Isabelle had reached the door but he paused and, pointing at the scabbard lying on the counter, said, ‘That looks as if it belonged to one of Napoleon’s marshals.’

Madame Dipeau was unamused. ‘It belonged to Napoleon himself, monsieur,’ she said tartly.