Chapter Eighteen
Eighteen
Baxter sat in the passenger seat of Thierry’s battered Peugeot as the chef drove down the hill toward Cannes to retrieve the Porsche.
The air inside was faintly sour with sweat and old cologne, and the footwell was a soup of fast-food wrappers, receipts, and drinks cans.
Surreptitiously, Baxter began sifting through the receipts, looking for betting slips.
“I suppose the guests will leave early.” Thierry braked sharply, yanking the steering wheel hard to the left.
Baxter took hold of the inside door handle to steady himself and immediately wished he hadn’t.
He took out a handkerchief and wiped whatever sticky substance had transferred to his hand.
“Francesca and Damian still have interviews in town,” he said.
“And the police will want statements from everyone.”
“Everyone?” Thierry’s eyes darted to Baxter. “Even Miriam and me?”
“I imagine so.” Baxter tried to read Thierry’s expression.
A slight sheen had formed across the chef’s forehead, and a tiny muscle twitched by his temple.
Baxter thought of the half-empty bottle of vodka in the bar.
If Thierry was hiding the extent of his drinking from Miriam, he wouldn’t keep booze in his room, and it would be simple enough to sneak a swig or three from the bar when everyone was outside.
Baxter glanced over his shoulder but didn’t spot any bottles or cans among the rubbish strewn across the back seat.
“When was the last time you cleaned your car?”
“Bof! Life is too short.” Thierry threw the Peugeot around another corner.
“The way you drive, it could well be,” Baxter murmured.
“My car is my office.” He gestured toward the mess of paperwork. “I know where everything is.”
Baxter doubted that. He sifted through a bunch of receipts by his right foot.
Could Thierry be helping the gang of thieves?
Receiving a flat fee for his efforts, or a cut of the proceeds.
A hundred euros here, a sapphire and diamond ring there …
“So …” He tried for a conversational tone.
“How are things with you?” Thierry gave him a funny look. Baxter was not known for small talk.
“Okay, I guess.”
“You mentioned the season had been slow.” Baxter decided he might as well be direct. “Are you all right for money, or—” He stopped, his eye drawn to a handwritten receipt on crested paper.
“Are you offering to lend me some?” Thierry grinned. “I’ll be okay. There’s always money to be made if you know where to look.” He let out a whistle as they approached Rue des Belges. “La vache!” The Porsche was parked diagonally across the road. “Was he drunk?”
“It is entirely possible.” Baxter took in the crowd of people that had gathered to gawp at the hundred-grand Porsche causing chaos in the center of Cannes. He braced himself.
Sure enough, as Baxter approached the Porsche and unlocked it, there was a collective jeer from the onlookers and a cacophony of horns from the waiting cars.
Baxter slid into the Porsche and maneuvered it out of the near-impossible position in which Alec had abandoned it, while several people slow hand-clapped him.
Baxter wanted to open the window and point out it wasn’t his car, but he didn’t want to prolong the nightmare any longer.
As soon as he could, he put his foot down and sped off down the road.
He was halfway out of town when he saw a distinctive flash of auburn hair.
Red.
She was hovering near the market, watching with professional interest an American couple wrangling with their bags.
Baxter hesitated, then he pulled the Porsche across the street and mounted the pavement at an angle Alec would have been proud of.
Before Red had a chance to bolt, Baxter was out of the car, the open driver’s door forming the third side of a triangle that penned Red in place.
“Hey!” She eyed the bonnet of the Porsche as though she were contemplating jumping over it to get away.
Baxter didn’t waste any time. “What were you doing around La Californie last night?”
“I wasn’t—”
“Don’t give me that. You were seen snooping around a villa.”
She set her chin. “It’s not illegal to go for a walk.”
“At three in the morning?”
“It wasn’t three—” Red flushed, realizing her mistake.
Baxter allowed himself a satisfied smile. “So you were there?”
The girl shrugged. “Earlier though. Nine or ten.”
“Then I’ll ask you again. What were you doing?”
“Nothing.”
“Casing the joint, were you?” Baxter took a step forward. “Who are you working for?
“I don’t work for anyone.”
Baxter was done playing games. “You rob houses on your own, then?”
“I don’t rob houses!” Her voice cracked, and for a second Baxter thought she was going to cry. Her cheeks flushed, and she dropped her gaze to the floor. “I was going through the bins,” she muttered.
“What for?”
“For food— What do you think?” The defensiveness was back now. It was armor, Baxter realized, a tough shell that protected something much more fragile beneath it. “Rich people throw out a lot of good food.”
For the first time, Baxter noticed the girl’s jutting collarbones, the tight skin across her cheeks. Even her bravado seemed stretched thin. He took a step back. “When was the last time you had a hot meal?”
Red shrugged, brushing off the question as though she didn’t care.
Baxter indicated the Porsche. “Get in.”
Panic flooded Red’s face. “Please don’t take me to the cops! It’s just stuff people throw away; last night I got a pack of bread rolls and—”
“I’m going to give you lunch,” Baxter said tersely. He got into the driver’s seat and leaned over to open the passenger door.
Red stared at him.
“Are you coming, or not? You’ll get what you’re given, so don’t expect a menu, but it’ll be hot and filling, and it won’t have come from a bin.”
She was still suspicious—her eyes were narrowed, her brows knitted tight—but her mouth moved as though she could already taste the meal he was offering. “And what exactly are you expecting in return?” She folded her arms tight across her chest. “Because if you think I’m that kind of girl …”
Baxter gave a wry laugh. “I can assure you that couldn’t be further from my mind.”
She held his gaze for several seconds, weighing up the situation, before strolling with deliberate insouciance around to the other side. “Nice car.” She slid into the passenger seat.
“I prefer something a little more subtle, to be honest.” Baxter navigated their way out of Cannes, the built-up streets slowly giving way to countryside.
Red sat forward. “Go on, open her up a bit.”
“And earn myself a speeding ticket?”
“Too much for you to handle, is it?”
Baxter was about to protest, until he realized she was teasing him.
In spite of himself, he flexed his foot, and the car responded like a racehorse, leaping forward with a throaty roar.
Red laughed delightedly. Baxter was reminded of the blasé way Alec Prescott had abandoned the hundred-grand vehicle and, not for the first time, he thought about how little appreciation his clients often had for their luxurious lives.
“This is a 911 GT3, right?” Red asked.
“Don’t tell me you steal cars too?” Baxter was half joking, but when he glanced at her, he saw the hurt in her expression. “Sorry.”
“My dad raced. Not big-time, just circuits near Marseille. I used to go to the track with him when I was little.”
“He doesn’t race anymore?”
“He’s dead.” She delivered it bluntly and without emotion.
“I’m so sorry.” They drove in silence, the Porsche taking the bends like silk ribbon. “Was your father French?” Baxter said after a while.
“Yes. My mum’s English.”
“Where does she live?”
“What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?” Red fiddled with the trim on the leather seat. “She’s still in Marseille. She married this guy when I was about fifteen, and …” She let out a long breath. “Well, let’s just say he was a bit too ‘hands on’ as a stepdad. So I left home.”
It took Baxter a second to understand what she was saying. His fingers tightened around the steering wheel. His niece, Florence, was fifteen; she liked horses and Taylor Swift, and the thought of someone harming her filled Baxter with a fury he rarely felt. “Where do you sleep?”
“Doorways.” That casual shrug again. “Under bridges. Sometimes people leave their sheds open.” She gave him a sidelong look. “Blake and Elise Lawson let me stay at their place for a couple of nights.”
“How kind,” Baxter said drily. Their place, indeed!
He pulled into the driveway at Villa Sérénité and parked the Porsche in front of the imposing entrance. Red gave a short intake of breath. Baxter was puzzled—the girl had been here before; she surely wasn’t awed by it?—until he saw there was a police forensics van parked by the gate to the pool.
“They’re here for the burglary,” he reassured her.
Her expression remained wary. “You’re lucky they’re taking it seriously.
The commissaire believes tourists bring it on themselves.
Flaunt their wealth in town and leave themselves open to burglaries.
He’s spoken openly about how there are more important things to investigate than the theft of ‘a few trinkets.’”
“One of the guests died.”
Red’s mouth fell open.
“Shall we?” Baxter got out of the car. His passenger stayed put. She was less confident here than on the streets of Cannes, Baxter thought, like a wild animal plucked from its natural habitat. He walked around to her side and opened the door with an extravagant flourish.
Red gave an awkward smile. “I could get used to this.” She unfolded her skinny legs from the cramped footwell.
“Don’t.” Baxter raised an eyebrow. “A hot meal—a shower, if you want one—then I’ll drop you back in town.
” He began walking around the side of the house, toward the kitchen.
“And keep your hands to yourself.” He stopped and held up a warning finger.
“Touch anything that doesn’t belong to you, and I will personally hand you over to the gendarmes. ”
“Chill.” Red rolled her eyes. “What’s for lunch, then?” She carried on walking, her swagger restored, even if temporarily. Baxter’s conviction wavered. She was a hungry kid, but she was a pickpocket too, and who knew what else?
Baxter hoped he hadn’t made a terrible mistake bringing Red to Villa Sérénité.