The conversation was interrupted by the popping of their champagne cork, and crystal-white Mumm’s frothed and bubbled in the glasses Bruno had placed in front of them. Solemnly, the two men lifted them to chink together in a toast. ‘Long life and happiness to you both,’ Enzo said.
‘And many happy returns to you.’
They both sipped the chill white wine, its bubbles bursting in effervescence all around their lips. Enzo said, ‘You’d just better take bloody good care of her, that’s all.’ He paused. ‘Or you’ll answer to me.’
A wry smile spread across Fabien’s lips. ‘I’m shaking in my shoes, Monsieur Macleod.’
And Enzo grinned.
Chapter nineteen
It took several moments for everything that assailed Bertrand’s senses to register in his consciousness. First, it was low-angled sunlight shining directly in his eyes. That brought instant, sharp pain to a head which already felt as if it were gripped in a vice.
Then came the cold. A deep, numbing chill that penetrated his bones, and he realised he was shivering, soaked by a dew that had almost frosted in temperatures which had plunged overnight.
The final, and completely overwhelming pain that next gripped him came from his right leg as soon as he tried to move it.
He seemed to have no control over it, but any shifting of his body brought excruciating pain forking through the leg and up into his back. His brain was slow and fogged by exposure and pain, and it took several more moments for the realisation to dawn on him that it was broken.
He lay on his belly with his face in the dirt, and became aware of how shallow his breathing was. Then, gradually, it came back to him why he was here, what had happened the night before. Sophie. They had taken Sophie. And the shock of recollection sent his heart rate soaring and produced a surge of adrenalin that enabled him to overcome the pain long enough to drag himself up into a semi-sitting position, giving free vocal rein to his agony as he did.
He heard himself call out, a disembodied voice, ragged with distress, that echoed away along the stony bed of what, it became clear to him now, was a dry river. As his cry died away, there was no other sound to replace it. He was, it seemed, the only living creature in this dead place. And then, very faintly, from some immeasurably far distance, he heard the almost imperceptible sound of traffic. A memory returned of the motorway he had seen the night before, and he realised that he could never reach it now.
He looked back up the slope he had fallen down in the dark, God knows how many hours ago, and it seemed almost insignificant to him in daylight. A stony bank, overgrown with wild grasses and shrubs, a drop of no more than five feet. If he could stand up, he would see over the top of it.
It was clear to him that going back the way he had come was the only viable option. The single-track metalled road could only be fifty or sixty yards distant. And, if anyone was going to pass this way, it would be on that road. Somehow, he had to get himself back up the slope and cover the distance to it. Because no one was going to find him here.
He had never been good with pain, but he was going to have to overcome that now. His leg lay uselessly on the ground in front of him, the break halfway between knee and ankle, the shinbone snapped clean, its two halves lying at a sickening angle, one to the other. He couldn’t even bring himself to look.
It took the next five minutes to manoeuvre himself into a position where he was supporting himself on his left knee, his broken leg trailing hopelessly behind him and to the side. There was no one around to see his shame as he vented his pain, crying out in the early-morning light, involuntary tears tracking through the dirt and blood on his face.
Now, using all his upper-body strength, he began pulling himself up the slope, using his good leg as an anchor and trailing the other behind him. Sweat joined the tears on his face.
Finally, he could see over the lip of the drop, back towards the road and the trees beyond it casting their shadows deep into the woods. It was going to take considerable effort — and some time — to get there, but just the sight of it gave him hope and strength.
He reached forward to grasp a rock half buried in the soil, to pull himself up, finally, out of the riverbed. And was caught completely by surprise as it tore itself free of the dry earth that held it, rolling back to strike him in the face. His other hand lost its grip, and he tumbled back down the slope, twisting as he went, indescribable pain forcing a scream from his lips. He was unconscious before he hit the bottom.
Chapter twenty
By the time Enzo and Fabien got back to the apartment, they were both a little glassy-eyed. They had polished off the champagne and spent the rest of the morning in the Forum. Now, they realised, most of Enzo’s birthday-party guests had already arrived.
Nicole greeted them in the hall, her face dark with anger. ‘Where have you been?’
‘You told us to get out from under your feet,’ Enzo said.
She peered at them suspiciously in the gloom of the hallway. ‘Have you two been drinking?’
Enzo and Fabien exchanged innocent looks.
‘Us?’ Fabien said.
And Enzo shook his head vigorously. ‘Noooo, no, no, no, no. Just a little toast to your wedding.’
She glared at them. ‘Nearly everyone’s here, and they’re all wondering where you are.’
‘Then they need wonder no longer,’ Enzo said, and he strode off into the séjour.
The first of the guests to greet him was Commissaire Hélène Taillard, the town’s chief of police, a statuesque woman, somewhere in her middle forties. She had freed blond-streaked brown hair, normally pinned up beneath her hat, to fall in curls over her shoulders. She greeted him with a ‘Happy birthday, Enzo,’ and kissed him on both cheeks, her plump, rouged lips lingering overlong on his face. He breathed in the familiar scent of her perfume, and remembered with relief how they had once narrowly avoided having sex. He had been saved from his own libido only by the timely, or untimely, arrival of Sophie. How different might things have been now if she had not returned home when she did?
Kirsty was there, too, baby Alexis the centre of attention among the female guests. She gave her father a hug and a kiss. ‘Happy birthday, Papa,’ she said.
He looked around and turned to Nicole. ‘Where’s Sophie?’
But Nicole just shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Happy birthday, old fella.’ Préfet Jean-Luc Verne pumped his hand. It was his little joke, since he was several years Enzo’s senior. Enzo attempted a smile. He and the chief administrator of the Département du Lot were old friends, accustomed to intellectual sparring and the occasional game of chess. The state-appointed préfet was a graduate of the Ecole Nationale d’Administration, and a formidable intellect in his own right. It was he, along with Commissaire Taillard, who had called Enzo to task at a dinner party one night when the Scotsman had boasted that his forensic experience, coupled with the latest science, could easily solve the seven cold-case murders in the book, then just published, by Parisian journalist Roger Raffin. Bets had been placed in the amount of 2,000 euros, and the following morning, in the cold light of day, Enzo had cursed his predilection for a glass or three of good Cahors wine and his foolishness in accepting the bet.
He did the rounds of all his guests. Neighbours and friends, colleagues from the university, and was surprised to see Nicole’s father there. The old farmer had made an attempt to smarten himself up, his hair plastered to his head with some highly perfumed oil. He wore a jacket that was a size too small, and buttoned over an expansive belly which stretched out the creases of his white shirt. The knot on his blue tie was tied too tightly and Enzo wondered how he would ever get it undone. He recalled the day the two of them had rolled around on the floor in here, knocking lumps out of one another, when the farmer had believed Enzo to be taking advantage of his daughter. Now he shook Enzo’s hand warmly. ‘She’s told you the news?’