The Stealers (17 page)

‘Pen… paper,' he said in a whisper.

Girard looked around the room until his eyes fell on Giselle, the housekeeper, who sat on the edge of her seat and with a wave of the gun said, ‘Get something to write on,
s'il vous plait
.'

Giselle scurried over to a large sideboard set against the wall, opened a drawer and returned with a notepad and pencil. Girard took it from her and handed it to Mullah.

‘You had better write all you know,' Crane said, ‘and don't make any mistakes, your life depends on it, because I'll not let you go until it is checked out.'

Mullah wrote with trembling hand. It seemed to take him some time and he paused briefly when his hands became clammy, running them down the sides of his trousers. When he had finished writing, he handed the pad to Crane and said in a hoarse whisper, ‘They'll kill me for sure if they find out I've done this.'

Crane gave him a disdainful look, as he took the notepad and, after a cursory glance, handed it to Girard with the remark, ‘It's in your language.'

Girard quickly translated what Mullah had put down and said, ‘I know where this place is. There's enough information here to hand over to the authorities but Jack, you'll have to do the handing over. Let's hope some of the poor souls can be found.'

Crane checked his watch and said, ‘One of us should check up on Penny and the kids in the van. Bring them here first and then we'll drive to the nearest city gendarme police station.'

Girard was keen to see Penny again, ‘I'll go,' he offered enthusiastically.

‘Okay, meanwhile I'll figure out what to do with this lot.'

The evening light had vanished when Girard slipped through the front door. Once outside, he paused for a moment – allowing his eyes to adjust to the dark – before trundling off along the gravel driveway towards where they had left the van. The scrunching of loose stones beneath his feet bothered him. Each footfall kicked up gravel, making it sound as though there was somebody trailing along behind. He wanted to move quietly, without distraction, animal-like, and tune his ears into the night sounds, so he stepped deftly onto the moist soft grassy edge along the side. Before long, the dark outline of the two vehicles came into view and Girard began to feel less apprehensive as he approached the rear door of the van. All was quiet, except for the snap of a twig. Too late! As Girard spun round, a series of blows were hammering onto the side of his head causing him to slump heavily to the ground.

*

Crane decided that the best place to put his prisoners was back down in the cellar. Only this time he would make sure that nobody had a spare key. He ensured that they had all emptied their pockets onto a large table whilst paying special attention to the scowling housekeeper, Giselle. He checked his watch and realised that Girard had been gone for almost half an hour which was far too long for the task in hand. This sent his alarm bells ringing. He managed to find a small torch before stepping outside but as he passed the door, he stood for a moment and stared into the darkness. The moonless night was blanketed by clouds. He decided to take a roundabout route and arc round to where they had left the vehicles. Minimal use of the lamp meant his progress was slow going in the dark, but within fifteen minutes he was staring at the empty space where the vehicles had been parked.

Crane tried to get quickly back towards the house but the torch batteries were about to expire and he lost his footing once or twice, tumbling to the ground. As he neared the
Maison
Rouge
again, he realised that the Glock handgun had slipped out of his waistband and he arrived back just in time to see the helicopter, lights blazing, suddenly lift into the night sky.

Crane moved towards the front door of the house and paused; it had been left wide open and inside was in total darkness; everyone had gone. He turned and walked towards the barely visible path that led to the jetty. Suddenly he stopped halfway and listened. The reverberation from the launch's engines told him that it was too late. Crane had underestimated Mullah's resourcefulness. Everyone had left and he was stranded in the middle of nowhere, miles from the nearest town, in the pitch black dark.

That evening Ryan arranged to meet up with Bradley in the cafe at the Cliffs Pavilion, situated in Westcliff-on-Sea. He was the first to arrive and sat staring out across the Thames Estuary. The tide was out and pools of water, left in the estuary mud, gleamed metallic in the sun. Ryan was finding it difficult to contain his excitement. Bradley arrived within a few minutes, grabbed a coffee and drew a seat up next to Ryan beside the huge panoramic windows of the Pavilion Cafe. Bradley listened with interest as Ryan, not wishing to leave anything out, told him of the day's events. ‘She even had a key to his front door,' he added, as he passed her business card to him.

‘Did she now,' Bradley said thoughtfully as he took the card, held it at arm's length, scrutinised it and read out loud, ‘Hmm… Doctor Daniella Mersch, with a Romanian address.' A twisted smile began to spread across his face as he ran his thumb along the edge. ‘A little trump card in case it's needed. One way or another, I'll nail him into the ground. You've done well Ryan.'

Ryan beamed and took the opportunity to mention as casually as possible, ‘By the way, do you happen to have my share of our earnings?'

The smile vanished from Bradley's face as he pursed his lips and with a sombre expression said, ‘I wish I had.' Reaching for his wallet he snatched out a pair of fifty pound notes and stuffed them into Ryan's hand. ‘A little bonus – you deserve it. It won't be long now before you get what's coming to you.'

It was not the answer he was hoping for. Ryan managed a weak smile as he pocketed the money and in a hushed voice said, ‘Okay, thanks,' before they parted company.

*

The two men that Girard had left hand-cuffed and straddled to a telegraph pole, grinned with satisfaction as they manhandled Girard's limp body towards the rear of the van. One of them unlocked the door and Penny looked horrified as the pair bundled the Frenchman onto the floor between the rows of seats either side.

‘You've got company,' the driver said jauntily before locking them in again. The children, who had been keeping themselves amused throughout, stared down at Girard's prone form. Andrew said, ‘Is he dead, Auntie Penny?'

Penny gave him a stern look, before unbuckling her seat belt and then she knelt on the floor beside Girard. Checking his pulse, she looked at Andrew and said, ‘Not yet thankfully.'

Andrew nodded and fished his computer from a pocket whilst the three little girls looked on with concern.

The sound of the vehicle starting up made them look towards the front, but there was nothing to see, just a miniscule window – a peephole – through to the cab. The van rocked and swayed on the uneven ground for a few kilometres, before reaching the tarmac surface of a public road. Penny remained on the floor, cradling Girard's head on her lap. She found herself attracted to his handsome features and despite suffering discomfort, she preferred to protect him from further damage as he lay on the bare metal floor of the van.

*

Crane reasoned that there was no point in stumbling around in the dark and so he made his way back to
Maison Rouge
and went inside. The electricity had been turned off. It was too dark to hunt around for the main power switch. He had no choice but to wait until dawn. He made himself comfortable in one of the armchairs near the front door and, whilst contemplating his next move, drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

Throughout the night, sleep came and went as Crane twisted and turned in the folds of the armchair. A crack of light pierced between one of the heavy drapes at the window and as he stirred from sleep, a sound scratched at his brain. He shot up, like a hare alerted to danger and paused for a moment, stretching like a cat, before following the shaft of light and peering through the curtain.

A steamy haze preceded the early morning sun. Two men were standing on the gravel outside. They puffed misty breath into their cupped hands until one of them produced a pack of cigarettes. An Uzi submachine gun dangled from each of their sides. They looked around and seemed uncertain which direction to take.

“Amateurs,”
Crane smiled to himself as he crossed the floor of the large sitting room and padded up the stairs into one of the bedrooms. There was a side window in the bedroom and the curtains were not drawn. He moved slowly towards it and looked outside. About a hundred metres from
Maison Rouge
stood a dark coloured Mercedes SL sports car; it would be an escape route for him, if the keys were still in the ignition.

The scraping of heavy feet on the gravel drive and the thud of the front door being thrown open, interrupted his thoughts. Without delay, Crane eased back the double windows. He then pushed the single bed from the middle of the bedroom and set it underneath the window ledge. He snatched up one of the covers and laid it over the window ledge. Within minutes, the stairs began to creak and groan under the weight of large-booted feet as someone clumped their way up.

Crane squatted behind the door as it opened and watched a man enter the room, pause and then walk straight towards the open window. As he poked his head through the gap, Crane sprang like a panther and upended the thug through the opening, who screamed loudly as he hurtled down onto the ground below. Then all was quiet. Crane did not bother to look, but snatched up the abandoned Uzi as again the heavy thud of another set of boots raced up the stairs. The next man followed the same route, out of the window, as his predecessor and Crane left the room mumbling to himself, ‘Amateurs, bloody amateurs.'

Outside, Crane walked towards the two semi-conscious men prone on the dewy grass. On hearing his approach, one of them moved his head. Crane looked down at him and said nothing. Fearful vulnerable eyes stared back at Crane. They were a well-built pair, but now they were helpless. Taking no chances, Crane pointed one of their Uzis at them whilst he rifled through their pockets. The other man began to stir, flickering puzzled eyes, as Crane searched him, found the keys to the sports car and extracted them from his pocket. Crane looked at him contemptuously and said quietly, ‘You're very lucky to be still alive. If I see you again, I'll kill you.' He was uncertain whether they understood what he had said as he relieved them of their mobile phones and headed towards their parked car.

He checked the inside of the car. The fuel gauge registered that the tank was almost full. Upon opening the glove box he found a handgun, a semi-automatic nine mil Glock with a full magazine, so he tossed the two Uzis he had taken from the men into the boot. Crane reasoned that his first port of call should be on Pierre Durand, the helicopter pilot. The built-in satnav told him that it would take two and a half hours of drive time, to reach the Boulogne area. He glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw the pair of would-be assassins sitting up dishevelled, on the grass by the side of the house; no doubt bitterly regretting their involvement.

*

Within two hours of Crane's departure, a dark sombre looking vehicle, scrunching its tyres on the gravel drive, pulled up outside the
Maison Rouge
. The driver leapt out of the hearse and stared agape at the pair of would-be assassins sitting up on the grass outside. ‘What happened?'

Through clenched teeth one of them said, ‘He got away, that's all I'm saying. Now help us up and get us to a hospital and be careful, we've got broken bones.'

After helping the pair into the hearse, the driver said, ‘I'd better phone Mullah, I was supposed to be taking a corpse to Chateau du Lac for burial.'

When he heard the news, Mac, Mullah's manservant, put the phone down and immediately dialled Bradley. ‘I haven't disturbed Mullah. He went to bed early. He copped a bullet from the Frenchman yesterday, caught him in the leg. Anyway we've now managed to get him under wraps, but this Crane guy is still on the loose and causing us grief.'

Bradley was quiet for a moment; Mac thought he had hung up, ‘You still there?'

‘Yes I'm still here. I believe I have the answer to our problem. I'm assuming he is going to arrive at Chateau Du Lac, simply because you have the woman and kids there. If and when he does, let me talk to him.'

Mac's face registered a puzzled expression as Bradley continued, ‘As it happens, I have found someone he knows, someone he must care about because she has a key to his cottage.'

*

Two hours had passed and Girard lay on the floor in the back of the van, his head still cradled on Penny's lap. In the dim interior light, she had found some used paper tissues and gently dabbed at a gash on the side of his head until it stopped bleeding. By now, the four children were thoroughly bored and looked on wistfully. They sat in a row opposite, strapped in their seats, leaning forwards curiously with their chins supported by cupped hands and elbows resting on knees.

The van suddenly stopped. The driver jumped out, gun in hand and walked to the rear doors, rattling them open. Without a word he looked inside and Penny shouted out in French and English, ‘This man needs a doctor and… ' her voice trailed off as the man gave a cursory glance, stepped back, slammed the doors shut and locked them again. By then, his companion, who was following up in the car, had leapt out and joined him at the rear of the van. They both lit cigarettes. ‘What are we supposed to do we do with these people?'

The van driver said, ‘I'm assuming we are taking them to Chateau du Lac, but I must phone Mullah to confirm this.'

‘But we have no mobiles.'

‘I know, we must use a pay-phone. There's one in a quiet part of the next town.'

It was Mac who picked up the phone and, after listening for a short while, put it on hold while he spoke to Mullah. Returning to the phone he said, ‘What's happened to your memory? Mr Mullah's instructions were for you to bring them here and not to worry about the health of Girard. He's a wanted criminal, murder, robbery and so on. There's plenty of land here at Chateau Du Lac where he, or anyone else, can be laid to rest.'

*

Crane drove along the perimeter of the airfield. To avoid instant recognition, he made use of a pair of sunglasses and a well-worn baseball cap before driving into the parking area of ‘Heli
-
Hire
'
. He got out of the SL and glancing around, was satisfied by the sight of Durand's red Mi-2 helicopter, laying squat in its parking zone.
“At least Durand may be around,”
he reasoned.

Looking towards the ground, Crane ambled casually towards the office. A young man, whom Crane did not recognise, was sitting down with his feet propped up on the desk. The man looked up as Crane entered and immediately swung his feet to the floor.

‘
Bonjour
,' Crane began, ‘
parlez-vous Anglais?
'

‘Yes, I speak some English.'

‘
Ah bien
. Is Pierre around?'

‘Monsieur Durand should be here any moment. I am standing in at short notice, but I must leave soon. His other assistant, Simon, I believe his name was, apparently he quit the job in a hurry.'

‘Can't get reliable staff these days eh,' Crane muttered.

The smell of coffee attracted Crane to a machine and he helped himself to a cupful of espresso whilst studying some charts on a wall. His thoughts were interrupted by the man slipping out of the office, saying as he left, ‘Ah, here he comes now, cheerio.'

As the temporary assistant leapt through the opening, a shadow filled the door frame to take his place. Crane had his back towards him – coffee in hand – and remained staring at the charts on the wall.

‘
Je suis désolé
… ' Durand began, apologising for his late appearance. It was only when Crane turned slowly around to face him, he paused in mid-sentence, staring as though trying to look through a bank of mist. He thought there was something strangely familiar with the man standing in front of him. Crane removed the baseball cap and sunglasses. Durand's face turned ashen; it was as though he had seen a ghost. His eyes shifted nervously when Crane peeled back one side of his jacket, exposing the handgun that was tucked neatly into the waistband of his trousers.

‘So nice to see you again,' Crane said between gritted teeth, ‘but I'm sure the feeling is not entirely mutual. I trust the arm is healing. Now tell me – where are they?'

Durand; getting over his initial shock gasped, ‘Mullah's Chateau Du Lac.'

‘What do you know of their plans?'

‘Nothing; I swear it. I just dropped them off at the chateau and returned a few hours later to fetch Mac, his manservant. I brought him back here to collect Mullah's Bentley.'

‘Has the woman, Girard and children turned up?'

Durand hesitated before saying, ‘No, they were not there.'

Crane stared hard at him for a few seconds, ‘Are you sure? I'd hate to come back here, which I would do, if I find out you are lying.'

Durand felt hot under the collar at the thought of what Crane could do, ‘Come to think of it, after picking up Mac, I caught sight of a van moving along the drive that leads to the chateau.'

Still glaring at Durand, Crane said with suspicion, ‘It would have been dark. How do you know it was a van?'

‘I'm a pilot. It was easy to distinguish. There was a car following up behind it with its headlights on low beam.'

Durand looked down at the floor for a second, as though conjuring up signs of remorse. Straightening up he said, ‘Look, I've really had enough trouble with this whole thing. I know I bend the law on some things, but gunplay and kidnap is another thing; taking Mullah's money is not worth the risk.'

‘Then you might
just
have saved your bacon.'

Durand looked puzzled by this expression and uttered, ‘Eh?'

‘Forget it,' Crane said, ‘My problem is this, I don't trust you. What can I do to stop you warning Mullah?'

Durand shrugged and said weakly, ‘I won't contact him. My word on it.'