died and left him two million dollars – and according to the newspaper this had come as a complete surprise.
Simon scanned the article, feeling quite alive with excitement. He didn’t want a drink any more. He wanted to know what this was about: a link to the Basques, a mysterious amount of money, a very old man – thousands of miles away – now dead.
The article gave him almost everything: it even explained that David Martinez had been a lawyer in London prior to his inheriting this mysterious sum.
It took two minutes on the net to find out the ‘well known law company’ where David Martinez had worked: there were lists of lawyers of every company.
Walking to the window, Simon called Martinez’s firm on his mobile. A clipped voice requested his name and credentials, he handed them over: Simon Quinn from the Daily Telegraph.
He was batted around the system for a few moments, put on hold, put through to HR, put back on hold…but then he reached a superlatively snooty man, apparently David Martinez’s boss, Roland De Villiers, who was more than keen to hand out Martinez’s mobile number. The boss actually added, for good measure, ‘I do hope he’s in trouble.’
The call clicked off, abruptly.
Simon looked at his notepad, resting on the windowsill. It was a British number that the lawyer had airily handed over. He keyed the numbers, but the ensuing ringtone was long bleeps – indicating that this guy Martinez was abroad – in Spain maybe?
Then a hesitant voice came down the satellite.
‘Yes…Who is this?’
24
The smell of congealed eels hung in the air. Mist was sidling into the room stealthy and needy. David sat in the silence and the chill, wondering at José’s words. Then he welcomed the return of his wits. He needed to speak to Amy. To tell her all of this.
‘Amy!’
His voice echoed. He tried again.
‘Amy?’
Where was she? He hadn’t seen her for an hour. It was hard to believe she was outside in the rain.
He called again. His voice bounced off the mouldering woodwork, and down the empty corridor. Nothing.
A swift search told him there was no one on the ground floor: all he could hear was the incessant skitter of rat tails, as the vermin fled his approach through each unsavoury chamber.
How about the room they shared? He and Amy? Where they had talked through the night?
He had to take the stairs; he had to go up the stairs. The pounding of his feet matched the pounding of his pulse as he called Amy’s name again – nothing, the hallway was empty.
He pushed the door and as he did his mind filled: the imagined scene of his parents, dying in their car, came suddenly and vividly into mental view. His mother’s head crushed, blood drooling politely from her slackened mouth…
Maybe the same had happened to Amy. Everyone close to him was taken away: everyone.
David scanned the room he and Amy had shared. Empty. It was bereft even of rats, or ravens cackling at the window. The bunks were still shifted together; the old picture of a Jesuit saint was still askew on the peeling wall. Slumlike dampness seeped from the ceiling.
There was one bedroom left, Fermina and José’s room. No doubt the door was locked and barred against the world.
Maybe she was in there?
David gathered his valour and stepped down the hallway and called through the door, Amy – Amy – but the returning silence was claustrophobic.
This was intolerable. He yearned to escape, to find the truth and find Amy – and then run away, get out of this awful house, this monument to oppression; the pains and terrors of the Cagots – branded, excluded, humiliated – seemed to have soaked into the bricks and mortar. David wanted to find her, and then fly.
He poised a fist to knock on the door. He would kick the door in, if necessary.
But his knock was stayed by a voice – right behind him.
‘David?’
He swivelled. It was Amy.
‘Where have you been?!’
‘Downstairs –’ Amy shook her head ‘– the cellar…to check –’
‘What?’
‘For passages. The chemins des Cagots. You remember? Eloise said there were passages, built by the Cagots – I thought if we were in trouble, we could use them…but I only found vaults –’
He put two hands on her shoulders.
‘José told me, told me all of it – everything. He’s locked in there – with Fermina –’
He tilted a frown, leftwards, indicating the door.
‘But why?’
He began to explain.
And he stopped almost at once. Their conversation