Present Danger

51

They were running out of food. There was nothing fresh left –no vegetables, no bread or milk, just a few tins. Milraud reckoned they could hold out for another day and then they’d have to get supplies from somewhere. The only source of food on the island lay on the shelves of the Casino mini-market in Porquerolles village three kilometres away.

That was where he had intended to get provisions, when he’d planned all this before they’d set off from County Down. Planned, he thought ironically. That was the trouble: nothing had been properly planned; it had all just been a panic reaction.

He supposed it might still be safe to send Gonzales over to the village, but it was a risk, and in more ways than one – Gonzales, with his strong Spanish accent and his tendency to pull a gun at the slightest provocation was hardly unnoticeable. There was also always the chance that, stupid Spaniard though he seemed, Gonzales might simply get on the ferry with a oneway ticket, and never come back. That is, if he managed to get away. Milraud guessed that Gonzales’s description would have been as widely circulated in France as his own – and Piggott’s.

As he thought of Seurat’s visit to Annette he became increasingly certain that time was running out. He was beginning to feel like an animal in a forest as a fire closed in from all sides. He had an intuitive sense that his former colleagues were circling ever closer, getting ready to move in for the kill.

Food was not the only problem. James – Milraud simply couldn’t get used to the new name ‘Seamus’ – was growing increasingly volatile. He seemed a man very near the end of his rope. The night before he had lost his temper when his laptop computer had frozen, and he’d hurled it across the room. God knows if it was still working. Piggott was showing more and more signs of impatience; the man couldn’t seem to sit still, and three or four times a day he walked down the cliffside path to check that the dinghy, buried beneath bushes, was still there.

More worrying still, he was ignoring Milraud’s advice not to use his mobile phone. Every few hours he enquired if there was any reply from the contacts Milraud said he had emailed with the offer to sell Dave. If something didn’t happen soon, Milraud feared he would snap, and that could mean very bad news for Willis in the cellar. And possibly for Milraud himself.

There was no sign of a response from the contacts because Milraud had not actually sent any emails. His original idea instead had been to convince James that Annette was to be the intermediary with the purchasers. Then somehow she would get Willis off the island and Milraud would find a way of following her, leaving James and the Spaniard to fend for themselves. He and Annette would then lie low until the situation calmed down.

That had been his plan, but for it to work he needed Annette’s calm brain to work out the details. And for that he needed to see her. But this was out of the question now, as the email he had received from Annette this morning made clear: I think it best to postpone my visit for a while. Too crowded, even at this time of year. She was under surveillance and had been unable to shake it off.

Which meant there was now only one way out.

It took Milraud ten minutes to compose the email. He sat on a cane chair at the old pine table in the sitting room, keeping several windows open on his screen as he typed – ready to switch over at a click of his mouse if anyone came in and tried to look over his shoulder. But Gonzales was in his bedroom, smoking cigarettes and listening to tapes of Spanish pop music, while Piggott was pacing the porch outside. Each time his steps stopped, Milraud waited nervously. Finally he finished, and hit the Send button.