you’ll have to listen in to find out. I have a couple of questions that only he can answer, that’s all.” I lean back in my chair, having secured what I came here for.
“And in return?” Pendleton asks, getting straight to the point.
“I’ll ask my investigator to give you everything he has. It will either corroborate what you have, or add to it. Either way, it’s confidential and you didn’t get it from me.” I search their faces once more for confirmation. “I owe him nothing but I wouldn’t want my mother to think I had a hand in his imprisonment. For all his faults—and there are many—he is still her husband of over thirty years.”
Mr. Shammas nods in agreement. “I understand.”
“Good.” I stand and fasten my jacket. “So where are you holding him?”
“Right here, for security purposes. The kind of people he has associations with would think nothing of killing him if they could get their hands on him.”
I move towards the door. “And what of our two assassins? Are they cooperating?”
Mr. Constantine is the first to answer. “Yes. They’re after extradition and are plea bargaining.”
“Really? That’s asking a lot, isn’t it, when you’re charged with murder?”
“Murder?”
I’m not sure who looks the more startled out of the three of them.
It’s a three-way tie.
“Yes. Weren’t they responsible for the kidnapping and murder of Marie Claude Reynard? I’m assuming you have forensic evidence to link them to that? A confession even…”
Mr. Shammas sniggers. “You’re very well informed, Mr. Stone.”
“Not really. I read the MI5 file and she was mentioned. My father’s association with her father and subsequent fallout is just one of the pieces in a tangled web of lies and deception.”
“Yes, indeed it is, but one we’re managing to untangle a little more every day.” Mr. Shammas reaches out to shake my hand. “Thank you for your time. I hope you get the answers you’re looking for.”
I shake their hands, each in turn. “I hope so too.”
I leave them to their deliberation and head off down another corridor with Pendleton. We stop by an elevator. Once inside, he inserts a key and presses B for basement.
When we exit the lift, a fresh-faced uniformed agent with a clipboard is waiting, positioned in front of a glass partition. We sign our names and he punches in a code that allows it to slide back. He indicates rooms 1a and 1b. I assume Duvall is waiting in one and Pendleton will be observing from the other—nothing very hi tech about that, but nevertheless an effective way of observing and recording. The minute I leave the room they will playing back every sentence, I’m sure of it.
The agent punches in another code and 1a opens with a creak. Inside there is a table, on either side of which is a high-backed chair. To the left sits Monsieur Duvall. He looks dishevelled; his tie has been removed, his laces taken out of his shoes, his belt slipped from his waist. His shirt is creased and arranged over his paunch like a billowing sheet. He seems as if he’s coming apart, visually, at least.
He sneers when he sees me enter but says nothing.
I’m expected.
“Monsieur Duvall, what strange circumstances we find ourselves in.” I close the door behind me.
“Strange indeed, Ayden. Have you come to gloat?” He leans back into the flimsy chair, causing it to groan under his weight.
“Actually, no, I haven’t. I position the chair opposite and sit down as if we are about play a game of chess, which isn’t too far from the mark. “I wondered if I might have a few minutes of your time?”
He looks about him. There is a sink in one corner and a strip light above our heads, a couple of cameras and that’s about it. “I don’t think I have too much in my diary for today.”
“Good.”
He folds his arms across his stomach. “Can I venture a guess as to why you’re here?”
“Be my guest.” I mirror his body language.
“You want to know why you were left behind. Why I insisted that your mother bring home only one child from the hospital all those years ago. Isn’t that it?”
Damn right it is!
“Not specifically, but we could start with that, seeing as you’re volunteering information. I have time.” I keep my composure despite the hairs on the back of my neck brushing against my collar, making me feel irritable and incensed.
This is the least of your fucking crimes.
As if preparing to deliver some kind of legendary account he