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“You have a vineyard?”
“For want of a better word. It’s a bleak and barren outcropping of earth where the sun never shines and it only rains when you don’t want it to. What grapes survived three different kinds of blight are at this moment fermenting into one of the world’s worst wines. We closed down last year and as far as I know no one’s been back since. It’ll be the perfect place to hide out. No one speaks English, but they’ll remember the crazy American who tried to grow grapes where grapes won’t grow. And Bonnard will never find us.”
Claire shook her head in disbelief. “And where is this Garden of Eden?”
“About four hours away if we drive directly. I propose we take a roundabout way in case anyone follows us. We don’t have a telephone at the vineyard, but there’s a public phone in town. Once I get you settled into the farmhouse I can go down and call the police again. Maybe by then they’ll be more receptive.”
“Or maybe by then Marc will have convinced them that he’s innocent.”
“Maybe. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. In the meantime, I want you to pack some clothes for you and Nicole. Just the bare essentials—we want to travel as light as possible. Then we’ll head out across town to my friend’s house.”
“Couldn’t you just get the car yourself and come back here?” she suggested, bowing to the blessed inevitable. “I could pack while you’re gone, and I promise we’d keep the doors locked.”
He shook his head. “I haven’t wanted to point this out to you, darling,” he said gently, “but this is Bonnard’s apartment. A locked door isn’t keeping him out. He has keys.”
Claire could feel her face turn pale, her small measure of security ripped away from her. “How could I be so stupid?”
“It’s all right, Claire. As far as I can tell he hasn’t come near all day.”
“I’ll get our clothes,” she said numbly. “You call your friend. I’ll be ready to leave in five minutes. If Nicole’s still asleep you can carry her.”
“We don’t need to rush …”
“I need to get out of here,” she said, her voice deep and grim. “Call your friend.”
Josef dropped the neatly folded paper on Malgreave’s desk. “As ordered, sir,” he said, dropping wearily into the chair across from his superior. He wiped his domed forehead with a linen handkerchief. “A nasty business.”
Malgreave smiled benevolently at his assistant. “A nasty business indeed. Your wallowing in the sewers has brought it closer to completion, my friend.”
“Sewers, indeed.” He gestured toward the paper. “Is that what you wanted leaked?”
Malgreave picked up the evening paper. The ancient photograph of the Marie-le-Croix orphanage reproduced poorly—it looked shadowy and gothic, full of brooding evil. The headlines were suitably macabre—“Orphans’ Sex Ring Tied to Killings” got the message across quite nicely, if without subtlety.
“You did well, Josef. You and Vidal.” He kept his face bland at Summer’s involuntary wince. “And there’s no mention of Bonnard?”
“None at all. Just the dead butcher, Sahut, the bureaucrat, Alpert, and Rocco Guillère described in such intimate detail that you don’t need his name to know who they’re talking about.”
“Very good. And de Salles?”
“Also profiled. I’m afraid Vidal got a bit creative in that part when he talked to the reporter. He said the boy had a marked talent for miming.”
Malgreave shrugged. “No harm done. At this point I don’t care what we have to do to smoke him out, just so long as we can make it stick in the end.”
“Just so.”
“You look tired, my friend,” Malgreave said. “You’ve been at work even longer than I have. Go home and spend some time with your wife.” Before it’s too late, he added silently.
“You’ve been here almost as long,” Josef pointed out politely.
Malgreave shook his head. “You go home. I have to check the telephone calls and then I’ll leave.”
“I checked with Gauge when I came in,” Josef said. “Just the usual crank calls. I’ll check the transcripts to make absolutely certain, but it seems ordinary enough. Some hysterical woman insisting the killer was after her stepdaughter, a man with an incomprehensible tale of drugs and such. Gauge was in the midst of typing them up. I’ll go over them and then go home.”
Malgreave’s forehead creased. “Maybe I should take a look …”
“Sir!” Josef managed a look of affront. “Surely you can trust me on a matter such as this. I’ve been checking the phone calls for months now.”
“Of course.” Malgreave backed down. It had been a long day, and the tension was beginning to tell on both of them. “I’ll go home for a bit. But call me if anything turns up.”
