The Paris Apartment(85)

Then I walk back to the main room of the apartment. The bottle of wine is still there on the table. Another glass, just to help me think—

I start as I realize I am not alone. Antoine stands by the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching me: a malignant presence. He must have stayed behind after the other two left.

“What are you doing here?” I ask him. I try to keep my voice controlled, even though my pulse is fluttering up somewhere near my throat.

He steps forward, under the spotlights. The mark of my hand is still pink on his cheek. I’m not proud of myself for that loss of restraint. It happens so rarely; I have become good at keeping my emotions in check over the years. But on those very rare occasions when the provocation is great enough, I seem to lose all sense of proportion. The rage takes over.

“It’s been fun,” he says, coming nearer still.

“What has been fun?”

“Oh.” The grin he gives me now makes him look quite deranged. “But surely you have guessed by now? After that whole thing with the photograph in Papa’s study? You know. Leaving those little notes for you in your postbox, under your door. Waiting to collect my cash. I really do like how you package it up like that for me. Those nice cream envelopes. Very discreet.”

I stare at him. I feel as though everything has just been turned on its head. “You? It’s been you all along?”

He gives a little mock-curtsy. “Are you surprised? That I got it together enough? A ‘useless hothouse flower’ like me? I even managed to keep it all to myself . . . up till now. Didn’t want my darling brother to try and get in on the action too. Because, as you well know, he is just as much of a—what was the word you used again?—leech as I am. He’s just more hypocritical about it. Hides it better.”

“You don’t need money,” I tell him. “Your father—”

“That’s what you think. But you see, I had an inkling a few weeks ago that Dominique might be about to try and leave. Just as I suspected, she’s trying to fleece me for everything I’ve got. She’s always been a greedy little bitch. And darling Papa is so fucking tight-fisted. So I’ve wanted a little extra cash, you know? To squirrel away.”

“Did Jacques tell you?”

“No, no. I worked it all out on my own. I found the records. Papa keeps very precise notes, did you know that? Of the clients, but also of the girls. I always had my suspicions about you, but I wanted proof. So I went deep into the archives. I found the details of one Sofiya Volkova, who used to “work”—he puts the word in air quotes—“at the club nearly thirty years ago.”

That name. But Sofiya Volkova no longer exists. I left her back there, shut up in that place with the staircase leading deep underground, the velvet walls, the locked room.

“Anyway,” Antoine says. “I’m more switched on than people realize. I see a great deal more than everyone thinks.” That manic grin again. “But then you knew that part already, didn’t you?”





Jess




Theo and I walk to the Metro together. Funny, how after you’ve slept with someone (not that you’d call what we just did up against the sink “sleeping”) you can suddenly feel so shy, so unsure of what to say to each other. I feel stupid, thinking about the time we might have just wasted. Even if, admittedly, neither of us took that much time. It also feels almost like it just happened to someone else. Especially now I’ve changed back into my normal clothes.

Theo turns to face me, his expression solemn. “Jess. You obviously can’t go back to that place. Back into the belly of the beast? You’d be bloody mad.” His tone no longer has that drawling, sardonic edge to it: there’s a softness there. “Don’t take this the wrong way. But you strike me as the kind of person who could be a little . . . reckless. I know you probably think it’s the only way you can help Ben. And it’s really . . . commendable—”

I stare at him. “Commendable? I’m not trying to win some kind of bloody school prize. He’s my brother. He’s literally the only family I have in the entire world.”

“OK,” Theo says, putting his hands up. “That was clearly the wrong word. But it’s way, way too dangerous. Why don’t you come to mine? I have a couch. You’d still be in Paris. You’ll be able to keep looking for Ben. You could speak to the police.”

“What, the same police who supposedly know about that place and haven’t done anything about it? The same police who might well actually be in on it? Yeah, fat lot of good that would do.”

We head down the steps to the Metro together, down onto the platform. It’s almost totally empty, just some drunk guy singing to himself on the opposite side. I hear the deep rumble of a train approaching, feel it behind my breastbone.

Then I have a sudden, definite feeling that something is wrong, though I can’t work out what. A kind of sixth sense, I suppose. Then I hear something else: the sound of running feet. Several pairs of running feet.

“Theo,” I say, “look, I think—”

But before I’ve even got the words out it’s happening. Four big guys are tackling Theo to the ground. I realize that they’re in uniform—police uniforms—and one of them is triumphantly holding a baggie full of something white in the air.