Sleeping Malice Read online

  “Yes, I went back earlier today and they seemed to be even less interested now. I cannot imagine why he would have just walked out, flown to France without so much as a word, then nothing since. It has been over a week now. I know you are a good investigative reporter, and I know tonight is your leaving drink following your move from the Deptford Chronicle but I am happy to pay you, if you could find him for me. If he doesn't want to come back, that's fine; I just want to know that he is safe."

  "I'm sorry,” Greg responded, “I really don't think that I would be any good or help in that sort of investigation, but I’m sure you'll find someone to help you."

  “Don’t be stupid,” Donna interrupted, “you’ve got time, you can dig out stories. Edward is asking for help, of course you can help him.”

  “Donna, what do I know about the French system? I can hardly speak French, missing persons is not what I do.”

  Even though Greg thought he was being firm, Donna could be very persuasive. The next day he found himself sitting on a plane taking off from Stansted for the French airport of Dinard, not really having any idea what or how he would find Martin, the missing boyfriend.

  Last night in the Fox and Hounds Greg, putting aside the fact that he was not good at finding people, knew that lovers do have arguments, both gay and heterosexual, so, to a point and for most of the conversation, he was squarely taking the police point of view. Martin was an adult, so unless there was any evidence to the contrary, there was nothing to look into. If Martin wanted to contact Edward he would have done. Donna was not surprised at Greg’s bluntness, she had seen that side of him before. Even when it was clear from the credit card statement that Martin had hired a car, Greg was still on the side of the police. As Edward, his voice wavering at times as emotion invaded his words, continued to plead with Greg, who was not fully paying attention. Greg’s mind was beginning to turn to the problem of leaving the pub at the end of the evening without Donna either hanging on to his arm or shirt tails, or simply just following him at a safe distance.

  It was when Edward described the vast excess charge that had been made by the hire company to cover the cost of recovering the car. They had charged for staff time for making the inquiries to find the car as well as the cost of collecting it, even though it was undamaged, it was a totally randomly large figure.

  It was at that point that Greg forgot about Donna, "Abandoned the car you say?"

  "Well, they told me it had a puncture, they even charged me for that, twenty-five euros would you believe. Well of course Martin would have left it; he would have not been able to drive the sodding thing; bloody French, just making money out of tourists."

  It was then that Greg took a different view to the police. If your hire car develops a puncture, then you call the breakdown service that they all have, he reasoned. You do not just leave it beside the road, unless someone came to pick you up, but then why hire the car in the first place? Greg wanted to know a little more about the events leading up to the point when Martin just abandoned the hire car beside the road; as well as the practical question of what rate of pay Edward was thinking of.

  Brittany, France.

  Greg felt the surge of the Boeing 737-800 aircraft as it powered along the Stansted runway, building up speed to lift off and reach into the dull-grey cloudy sky that monotonously hung above the Essex airport. This was the moment when Greg's fear of flying realised itself through wet sweaty palms tightly gripping the armrests, his heart beating rapidly forcing his adrenaline-filled blood around his ever fearful body. All the while his brain grappling with the conundrum as to just how this heavy, lumbering mix of metals, plastic and humans was ever going to somehow lift off the rumbling runway. Greg had flown before so he knew, moments after he felt the plane tip back slightly, his stomach would jump as it lifted up. The wheels now turned silently as the plane rose up in to the sky. Somehow he could never fully believe the explanation that air pressure alone held this great weight, of which he was now a part, in the void of the sky. There just had to be another reason; another force exerting itself, maybe the willpower of all the passengers, praying it would take off and once there, stay there.

  As everyone fully expected and hoped, the Boeing lifted off the concrete runway, packed away its undercarriage, banked right, ever climbing into the sky of broken clouds as it made its way to Dinard in Northern France. Then inevitably comes that equally fearful moment when the plane needs to land at its destination. For a number of years this brought a sense of relief to Greg, knowing this big chunk of metal would soon be safe on the ground. That was until a fellow journalist had described the landing as a 'controlled crash'. From that point on Greg faced the landing with the same trepidation as the take-off that did nothing to encourage him to be a relaxed traveller. He guessed he was not alone as the plane taxied towards the terminal at Dinard, following the tacky Ryanair arrival fanfare, a number of passengers burst into a spontaneous round of applause; maybe it was their way of thanking the heavens for letting them down safely.

  Dinard Airport terminal is little more than a converted aircraft hangar, the Ryanair Boeing by far overshadowing it and most of the small light aircraft scattered around. Walking to the terminal, Greg could see the next batch of passengers already herded into the departure lounge, with its large windows that overlooked the tarmac, he wondered how many of them had clammy palms at this moment.

  Once through passport control, Greg walked into the small public concourse of the airport.

  The Europcar office was no more than a window in a wall, a neighbour of three other car hire firms. Two minutes off the plane and the work begins, Greg thought.

  "Bonjour Monsieur, do you have a reservation?"

  The heavy French accent was warm, friendly and inviting, Greg thought, you're going to love me, "Not exactly. I will want a car, but I do need some information first, and I was wondering if you could help me on both counts?"

  "No problem, I can recommend good ‘otels locally or maybe a restaurant, what do you want?”

  "Actually, it's about a friend of mine, he left one of your cars in the countryside and you guys needed to collect it. I just want to know a bit more about what happened, I'm trying to find him."

  "Ah the mad Englishman, so are you the police?" The Frenchman’s tone changed.

  "Reporter, Journalist." Greg explained.

  "What journal do you work with?"

  Now Greg had the feeling that this local Frenchman might not have heard of the Deptford Chronicle, although he didn't actually work for them anymore, so really he could say any newspaper and technically not be lying. "The Daily Telegraph newspaper, famous newspaper in the UK."

  "So what do you want to know about the mad Englishman? I served him, gave him his car and we never heard from him again."

  “Why was he mad?"

  "He was ‘bruyant', how you say, loud, banging the desk making much noise, wanting a car now, ‘Lives depend on me' he kept saying. I gave him the car, even though he did not have the paper part of his licence; I just wanted him to go. I saw him take the car out of the airport; not a good driver, lucky it was only a little Fiat car. He only wanted it for the twenty-four hours, but after thirty-six hours, I called the Gendarmerie; I have to, they find the car and we get it back here."

  "So what state was the car in?"

  "State?"

  "Oh, I mean - damaged, dirty, and anything wrong with it, any of his belongings in there?"

  "Well the puncture we fixed. Dirty, but it had been found in a country road, some blood on the passenger seat…”

  "Blood!" Greg’s voice sounded more excited than he wanted it to sound.

  "Un petit, a little, maybe he cut his finger maybe blood from le nez,” he pointed to his nose.

  "How many miles had the car travelled?"

  "Kilometres monsieur, this is Europe," he smiled, "I can find out." He turned and opened a large filing cabinet behind him, and began flicking through small buff folders, with thin paper sticking out at odd
angles, "Maybe you find him, if you do, tell the Gendarmes, they still have him as a voleur. A thief, I think in English."

  "They are still looking for him then."

  "Of course, he could not get back to England; his name will be on the list."

  Maybe that was a good thing, Greg thought, at least Martin would not make it back to England, yet equally given the lack of border patrols across Europe, Martin could be just about anywhere.

  "Here, he had driven one hundred and twenty-four kilometres when we found the car," producing a map he proceeded to point at a small road just north of a place called Josselin. Greg had never heard of it, but guessed he would soon be acquainted with the town.

  "So, I now need a car, I have all the paperwork, I hope, and I will bring the car back."

  "I hope you find him," the Frenchman said as he began completing paperwork for Martin’s car, “I felt sorry for him; he was, I think the word is troubled, unhappy, I guess he should have been seeing a doctor not hiring a car."

  It took Greg just over two long hours, as he was constantly stopping to consult the now much creased and used map he had purchased. Working his way through towns and villages with unpronounceable names and manoeuvring through crossroads and roundabouts which required driving in an opposite way to the way he was used to. The weather had been kind, dry and bright, so now he stood beside his hire car close to, or as near as he could work out to, where Martin had left the car, as indicated by the kindly French car hire man. He looked around at the green fields with Friesian cows gently munching their way across the lush fields; eating and barely interested in the man standing beside the car. Greg had driven north out of Josselin through a very large forest, before passing through a small village and arriving here on the D66; he wondered what to do next. Greg considered that maybe if he just waited there a while, someone would be bound to park beside him and ask if he was looking for the Englishman that dumped a car a few days previously, before proceeding to give Greg a whole list of clues and directions as to the whereabouts of Martin. That happened only in books. Here on the lonely D66 in the French countryside, Greg could not see a car, let alone a clue-laden Frenchman. He needed to do something, use some sort of logic. From his conversation with Martin’s partner, he understood that Martin knew no French language, apart from the very basic school boy French. So what would Martin do? No car, yet having a place to go to, a target, a destination. He would start walking in the direction he had been travelling. So Greg got back into his car and slowly drove to see what he might find. In the end, it was no more than a kilometre before he saw the small cottage, surrounded by low well-trimmed laurel hedges and a woman, short of stature, hanging out washing under the now ever-increasing cloudy and grey Brittany sky.

  *

  Marie Hélène heard a car slow down. It was far too early for her husband, he would not be back for hours. So she turned and saw the car pull up beside her gate. A car she did not recognise, nor did she recognise the driver, clearly he was not from around these parts. Thankfully it was not the Gendarmes, at least her husband had not got himself into trouble again; once had been a misunderstanding, but the second time she was sure he knew perfectly well that the chainsaw was stolen. Since then, there had been so many times that she had lost count. Although the times he was away in prison, she did secretly enjoy the freedom of being without him. Marie’s mother had warned her and she had not listened. Then the three children came along in quick succession and the time never seemed right to walk out on him. So here she was still hanging out washing, still looking over her shoulder expecting the Gendarmes to arrive.

  The young man approached her with a look of hesitation, so she guessed he was not selling anything, maybe he was lost, not uncommon around here, "Bonjour!" she called out. He responded with the same word, but with a strong English accent that she recognised at once.

  Greg took a deep breath and started using his schoolboy French, or at least what he remembered. "Pardon, je a regada une aimee, une voiture, la," he pointed back down the road. Greg saw her jumbled look before he said hopefully, "You don't speak English, by any chance?”

  "Je suis desole, non." Which he thought was an odd reply if she didn't really understand English.

  In fact Marie Hélène did know some words from her granddaughter, who was learning English at the local school, who often tested out newly learned words and phrases on her Grandmamma. Plus more words learned from the ever increasing number of English who were settling in this part of Brittany. Marie Helene knew more English than she would care to admit to, it was just speaking and understanding the fast-speaking English that confounded her and resulted in her remaining stoically French in her speech.

  Greg looked at the woman, decided this had been a bad idea; he needed someone who could speak at least a little English to complement his little French. "Pardon, merci beaucoup." He said as he shrugged his shoulders, smiled and turned to leave the well-tended garden.

  "Monsieur, venez," she was beckoning him into the house, "please," she spoke with a strong French accent.

  Puzzled, Greg turned and followed her into the house. As he walked through the small porch way became a large kitchen-dining area. The room was dominated by a large, long wooden table covered with a bright floral plastic table cloth. Freshly-cut flowers stood proudly in the open fireplace and beyond the table with its eight oak chairs, was the kitchen, functional and to the point. Marie Helene was now talking into the phone, then handed the receiver to Greg, her smile warm and a little bit alluring. Greg cautiously took it and said a tentative ‘Hello,’ into the mouth piece, unsure of who was on the other end. To his relief, a very English feminine voice returned his greeting.

  He was now talking to Faye. She was English, had lived on the other side of the village for a number of years, spoke French well and was part of village life, friends with many of those in the village and beyond. Faye listened intently as Greg explained his reason for being in Brittany and ending up in this French house. In true English style, some things just never leave your genes; Faye gave him directions to her house and invited him over at once for a cup of tea and to work out a way that she could help him. Proudly, Marie Helene waved her guest goodbye, glad of the diversion in her mundane life and looked forward to telling her neighbours about her lost Englishman and how she saved the day.

  Even though Faye lived in her large French house, with her husband Ralph, in the middle of the Brittany countryside, the house and garden reminded Greg of the house where he had spent his childhood with his younger sister. From the choice of the flowers, the number of rose arches and garden furniture, to the unmistakably English interior of the kitchen with its Aga and banks of expensive looking kitchen units. The décor was colour-coordinated and there was the smell of freshly brewed coffee running through the house. Faye and Ralph sat across the large kitchen table, solid oak with a filigree cloth covering it; listening to Greg as he explained his quest while all drinking the coffee. Faye was in her late fifties, her husband maybe a couple of years older, and even though she was thin by Greg's standards, she looked healthy and alert, very tall, a height which only accentuated her lack of weight. Her eyes were bright and showing interest in Greg, observing him intently, taking in his attire, his manners and his stubble. Greg felt as though he was being assessed by a teacher; she had that ‘teacher’ quality about her. Ralph, her husband, also listened but more out of politeness than interest. He sat beside his wife, a tall, thin man with still a good head of greying hair but showing signs of receding, baldness was clearly in his family genes, his features weathered and framed by wrinkles across his face.

  "To be honest Greg,” said Faye, “I did hear about the Gendarmes hovering around a car recently, but I didn't hear much more and as far as I am aware there was no gossip about it, and trust me, if something exciting was happening it would have spread around the village like wildfire," she paused and considered the situation before offering a solution that in her eyes would be a good way of moving forward, "W
e know, not all, but most of the English around here, both those who live here and those who have holiday homes. I guess this Martin would have been seeking out an English family, all we can do is to give you some directions to other families and perhaps you can ask them, maybe he was just passing through, and no one needs to tell me if a friend just passes through. At least by speaking to others they might in turn be able to point you to other English families in the area."

  Revived with coffee and biscuits, Greg set off again with a list of names and hamlets where he could find other English families. There were no numbers on houses to look for only the descriptions and locations that Faye had given him. La Heche was the name of the first hamlet and he was looking for the stone clad building, just past the bend, a house that had a large chestnut tree in the garden. Once he had identified what he thought was the house, he checked the name on the large green box that almost every house had beside their front gate, the mail box had the name Mr & Mrs Battener inscribed on it, clearly an English name; already Greg was beginning to feel a little like a detective.

  The Batteners were one of the oddest couples you might see, she was very tall and thin, gaunt in her appearance with long claw like fingers that ushered Greg in to the house. Her smile was pleasant but seemed to have an uneasy edge to it as she announced Greg to her husband, who was sitting in what clearly was an English styled front room; TV in the corner, large bulky three piece suite that just about filled the room, a large map of France on one wall and a large map of Atlantis on the other wall; Greg only knew it was Atlantis as it was clearly labelled as such in the bottom left hand corner. Mr Battener sat beside the fireplace, which instead of having space for burning logs, had an electric convector heater. Mr Battener had been sitting in a wheelchair reading the paper as his wife ushered their guest into the room; without hesitation he got up from the wheelchair and strode across the room to shake Greg firmly by the hand. If Greg had just witnessed a miracle no one else seemed that bothered, so Greg made no comment on what he had just seen. He was not offered any form of refreshment, which did not worry Greg, he was just asked 'what they can do for him', in such a way that he guessed they just wanted to give him his answers, say goodbye and then get on with their lives.