trembling.
Two minutes elapsed before Alain started to fast-forward. He scrolled through almost eight minutes in total, then hit PLAY again the moment the cameras picked up something else.
A green Toyota Land Cruiser with a plastic bull bar on the front, its headlamps switched off.
A door was flung open from the back and an interior light blinked on. A gloved hand reached out and took Serge’s holdall. The kid climbed inside.
‘What do you think?’ Trent asked. ‘Do you picture him as one of the guys with the rifles?’
Alain considered it. He uttered a low, guttural grunt. ‘Maybe.’
Trent closed his eyes and visualised the three masked figures who’d leapt out of the jeep. No way was Serge the one who’d advanced on the Mercedes and fired at the windscreen. That guy had been too bulky. Too assured in his movements.
And Trent didn’t see him as the man who’d hauled Jérôme out of the rear window. That job required muscle. It required boldness and composure. Those were two qualities Serge seemed to lack.
He could have been the one holding the rifle on Trent. That was possible, for sure. He’d seen anxiety in the guy’s eyes. Jitters.
But it was nothing conclusive. He could tell himself that Serge had been on the other end of that rifle, but he didn’t know it for sure.
‘Maybe he was the driver,’ Alain said.
Trent made a humming noise. It was a definite possibility. Serge was a driver by trade. And he knew the Mercedes well. Perhaps he’d figured out the best way to take it down.
But someone else had been driving the Toyota when they picked Serge up. So maybe that guy had been behind the wheel. Maybe Serge had fulfilled a different role entirely.
‘One thing’s for sure,’ Trent said. ‘He is involved.’
Alain nodded, distractedly. He was pressing his face close to the monitors. Peering at the screens.
‘What is it?’ Trent asked.
‘Number plate,’ Alain said, placing the pad of his forefinger beside the rear of the Land Cruiser. ‘I can’t read it.’
‘Looks like they smeared it with something. Mud or grease.’
‘And the front is no good, either.’ Alain let the footage spool out, watching as the Toyota passed silently along the fence before moving out of range of the final camera.
‘Irrelevant,’ Trent told him. ‘It’s probably stolen anyway.’ Then, realising he’d said more than he should have – he didn’t want to plant ideas in Alain’s mind – he tapped the monitor screening footage of the shack. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.
‘It’s nothing.’
‘Looks like a summer house.’
‘It’s a wreck. It’s falling down.’
And yet it was under surveillance. Two cameras. First the front view, then the rear.
Alain punched a button, jarring the camera feed back to real time, 03.52. All appeared to be still. All calm.
Trent was fixated on the shack. The discreet location. The loose cluster of trees. Those shutters and planks across the windows.
Abruptly, he became conscious that Alain was watching him again. Assessing him. Gauging him. The fearsome Ruger holstered at his side.
Silence between them. The surveillance monitors whirred and hummed and twitched. The fluorescent light buzzed and flickered. He could hear Alain’s breathing. Feel the heat coming off his body. Waited for him to speak. To accuse him of something. Maybe make reference to the photograph in his wallet.
The silence went on. Eventually, Trent broke it.
‘We should speak to the housekeeper,’ he said. ‘Ask her if she knows anything.’
‘She won’t. There’s no chance of that at all.’
‘Maybe Serge confided in her.’
‘He wouldn’t have.’
‘Why so sure? Only a short while ago you were certain that Serge was ill in bed.’
Alain muttered something under his breath. He shook his head, exasperated, as though he couldn’t quite understand how he hadn’t swung for Trent yet.
Then a telephone started to ring.
The noise was distant and muffled but unmistakable.
It
Two minutes elapsed before Alain started to fast-forward. He scrolled through almost eight minutes in total, then hit PLAY again the moment the cameras picked up something else.
A green Toyota Land Cruiser with a plastic bull bar on the front, its headlamps switched off.
A door was flung open from the back and an interior light blinked on. A gloved hand reached out and took Serge’s holdall. The kid climbed inside.
‘What do you think?’ Trent asked. ‘Do you picture him as one of the guys with the rifles?’
Alain considered it. He uttered a low, guttural grunt. ‘Maybe.’
Trent closed his eyes and visualised the three masked figures who’d leapt out of the jeep. No way was Serge the one who’d advanced on the Mercedes and fired at the windscreen. That guy had been too bulky. Too assured in his movements.
And Trent didn’t see him as the man who’d hauled Jérôme out of the rear window. That job required muscle. It required boldness and composure. Those were two qualities Serge seemed to lack.
He could have been the one holding the rifle on Trent. That was possible, for sure. He’d seen anxiety in the guy’s eyes. Jitters.
But it was nothing conclusive. He could tell himself that Serge had been on the other end of that rifle, but he didn’t know it for sure.
‘Maybe he was the driver,’ Alain said.
Trent made a humming noise. It was a definite possibility. Serge was a driver by trade. And he knew the Mercedes well. Perhaps he’d figured out the best way to take it down.
But someone else had been driving the Toyota when they picked Serge up. So maybe that guy had been behind the wheel. Maybe Serge had fulfilled a different role entirely.
‘One thing’s for sure,’ Trent said. ‘He is involved.’
Alain nodded, distractedly. He was pressing his face close to the monitors. Peering at the screens.
‘What is it?’ Trent asked.
‘Number plate,’ Alain said, placing the pad of his forefinger beside the rear of the Land Cruiser. ‘I can’t read it.’
‘Looks like they smeared it with something. Mud or grease.’
‘And the front is no good, either.’ Alain let the footage spool out, watching as the Toyota passed silently along the fence before moving out of range of the final camera.
‘Irrelevant,’ Trent told him. ‘It’s probably stolen anyway.’ Then, realising he’d said more than he should have – he didn’t want to plant ideas in Alain’s mind – he tapped the monitor screening footage of the shack. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.
‘It’s nothing.’
‘Looks like a summer house.’
‘It’s a wreck. It’s falling down.’
And yet it was under surveillance. Two cameras. First the front view, then the rear.
Alain punched a button, jarring the camera feed back to real time, 03.52. All appeared to be still. All calm.
Trent was fixated on the shack. The discreet location. The loose cluster of trees. Those shutters and planks across the windows.
Abruptly, he became conscious that Alain was watching him again. Assessing him. Gauging him. The fearsome Ruger holstered at his side.
Silence between them. The surveillance monitors whirred and hummed and twitched. The fluorescent light buzzed and flickered. He could hear Alain’s breathing. Feel the heat coming off his body. Waited for him to speak. To accuse him of something. Maybe make reference to the photograph in his wallet.
The silence went on. Eventually, Trent broke it.
‘We should speak to the housekeeper,’ he said. ‘Ask her if she knows anything.’
‘She won’t. There’s no chance of that at all.’
‘Maybe Serge confided in her.’
‘He wouldn’t have.’
‘Why so sure? Only a short while ago you were certain that Serge was ill in bed.’
Alain muttered something under his breath. He shook his head, exasperated, as though he couldn’t quite understand how he hadn’t swung for Trent yet.
Then a telephone started to ring.
The noise was distant and muffled but unmistakable.
It
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