Chapter Twenty-One
It’s one of the abiding mysteries of mankind that in this sort of situation, we all promptly ask what someone is doing despite it being immediately and blindingly obvious precisely what that person is doing.
In Tom’s case, it could not have been plainer.
He was standing in the salon holding one of the Matisse pictures, which he had evidently just removed from the wall.
And while, of course, not to his credit, Tom seemed to appreciate this point himself.
‘What do you think I’m doing?’ he replied, looking almost amused. ‘I’m stealing your paintings, of course.’
Slowly putting our bags down on the floor, Luc straightened up and took a step forwards.
‘Tom,’ he said again. ‘Don’t be a bloody fool.’
I peered past Luc into the salon. Not all the lights were on, but you could see only too clearly the results of Tom’s enterprise to date.
It was the last of the Matisse cut-outs he was holding, the worn, gilt frames of the others now empty of their images, propped against the side of the sofa nearest to him.
On the sofa itself, a clutch of cracked canvases or thick paper mounts – I know not which – were rolled up, their ends roughly tied with string and looking for all the world like a clutch of giant’s sausages.
Carefully, in an almost finicky way, Tom put down the picture he had been holding, at which point I saw what else he was holding. As Luc took another step forwards, I dropped the car keys and grabbed hold of the back of his jacket with both hands.
‘Luc!’ I screamed. ‘Don’t! He’s got a knife!’
‘Well spotted, Madam Cook,’ drawled Tom and laughed, an evil little falsetto laugh that sent a shiver down my spine.
He waved the knife in the air. I recognised it.
It was the chef’s knife from the Villa Matisse kitchen, a classic Sabatier with a pearly white handle and about twenty centimetres in length.
‘Tom, you’d better put the knife down,’ Luc said, not pleading or ordering but as though he was offering advice, his voice calm, unruffled, almost genial. I marvelled at his composure. For my part, I was beginning to feel extremely frightened. Then the next moment, I nearly passed out.
‘Sure, I’ll put it down.’ Tom chucked the knife onto the sofa only to draw something from a pocket of his scruffy Barbour and wave that in the air. ‘This do you instead?’
He was waving a gun.
My legs turned to water. I couldn’t speak.
I could not believe what was happening. All I knew was that I had to hang on to Luc’s jacket if only for my own support.
The three of us were silent for a moment, arrested in motion like some photo still from a crime film: Scene One, the Heist. Then, with a sudden shaft of fear, I remembered Nicole.
Had this moron done something to her? It seemed that Luc had the same thought at the same moment.
‘Where’s Nicole, Tom?’ he asked, still speaking in an almost chatty sort of way, surprising me until I realised he was doing his damnedest not to antagonise the man.
‘Nicole?’ Tom gave a scornful grunt. ‘Oh, the stupid little ninny has scarpered, run away, legged it, you know.’
I breathed a silent sigh of relief. ‘Perhaps that’s just as well.’ Luc nodded. Standing behind him, I couldn’t see his expression but Tom, watching him, must have seen something in his face because for the first time he looked disconcerted, nervous even.
‘I wasn’t going to hurt her,’ he whined.
‘Of course you weren’t.’ Luc gestured at the scene in the salon. ‘But can we talk about this sensibly now, Tom? I’m sure we can work something out. We’re all friends here.’
This was a mistake. As I watched Tom’s mouth turn ugly with fury, I knew Luc had made a mistake, what might turn out to be a fatal mistake. The skin of his pockmarked cheeks redly engorged, Tom screamed at him, spittle drooling from his twisted lips.
‘Friends? Friends! Who the fuck do you think you are? You’re no friend of mine! You’ve always treated me like shit!’
‘I’m sorry you think that,’ began Luc, still calm, but Tom was advancing on us, marching across the salon pointing the gun.
‘Enough of this crap,’ he snarled, digging its barrel in Luc’s ribs. ‘Get in the kitchen, both of you.’
‘Look, wait,’ said Luc. ‘I will do whatever you say, but will you please let Alix go?’
What the fuck! Even at that appalling moment and in the full knowledge that he was only trying to protect me, I could not believe Luc had come out with that ‘women and children first’ outdated drivel. I’d have to have a word with him – if I lived to have another word.
We stumbled through the swing door into the kitchen, Tom poking and prodding the gun at random into any bits of us he fancied.
‘Put your phones on the table,’ he snapped. ‘And you, Mr Fine Gentleman,’ he indicated Luc, ‘unlock the cellar door.’
Taking the key from its hook on the door jamb, Luc obeyed, apparently meek, although I noticed that from under half-lowered lids, his eyes were actually fixed like gimlets on Tom, which made me pray he wouldn’t attempt any heroics.
The cellar door creaked open, revealing the soot-black depths of its interior.
‘Right, Fancy-pants Cradock.’ Tom levelled the gun at me. ‘Get down those steps.’ He fashioned a silly little bow. ‘After all, ladies first, if you please.’
‘But I’m frightened of the dark!’ I squeaked. (It was worth a try.)
‘Very funny, Fanny.’ Seizing my upper arm in a painful grip, Tom pushed me roughly through the doorway, at which point I saw Luc start forward.
But before I could do anything, Tom gave my back a hefty shove, which sent me flailing down the first few stone steps, desperately trying to grab the handrail to save myself from falling.
Then I heard Tom’s evil little laugh again, and all of sudden Luc cannoned into me, propelling us both spinning helter-skelter to the bottom of the flight, where he ended up flat on his back with me on top of him.
The door above us slammed shut, the key turned in its lock, and there was silence: darkness and silence.
‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m not sure. It’s too dark to see.’
I felt rather than saw him smile. ‘An interesting hypothesis,’ he murmured, his breath on my cheek.
‘I’m working on it.’
‘Get your essay in by Friday, please.’
‘I might need an extension.’
He shifted slightly under me. ‘In which case, I’d better help you to move over. If I can stand up, I might just be able to find the light switch.’
With extreme delicacy, as if we were two pairs of gigantic knitting needles caught in a Gordian knot of wool, we untangled our limbs.
As Luc rolled away from me, I sat up cautiously, rubbing sundry bits of my anatomy.
In the darkness there came a scuffling noise, then an ‘Ouch!’ followed by an ‘Ow!’ and various muttered oaths, and then a click and the cellar flooded with light from an overhead naked bulb.
I saw that we had landed on a thick sheepskin rug, matted and tufty with dirt and not a thing of beauty, but life-saving.
With another groan, Luc bent to haul me to my feet. He seemed to be in one piece.
‘Are you injured?’ I asked.
‘Only my dignity. How about you?’
‘The same.’
We were avoiding each other’s eyes, the way you do on an overcrowded tube train after you’ve found yourself suddenly crushed up against a total stranger and have had to battle to get away from them.
Except I realised I had not wanted to battle away from Luc.
I had liked the feeling of his body beneath mine.
Guiding me to an old plastic garden bench standing against one wall, he sat me down on it and cast his eyes about him.
‘Well, this is a pretty kettle of fish,’ he muttered.
‘I’ve always wanted to visit a real wine cellar.’
I looked about me expecting to see stone bins built into the roughly white-washed walls, with plaques from wooden wine cases tacked above them bearing poker-burnt legends such as Gevrey Chambertin 1989.
I would have thought there would be flagstones, a huge, scratched table bearing a leather-covered ledger recording every vintage since Adam and perhaps even a casual cask of cognac or two.
Instead, it was all depressingly modern, like a cut-price wine warehouse in a retail park, with a concrete screed floor and the sort of Ikea flatpack bottle racks we mere mortals use.
‘Oh, the fucking idiot!’ Luc cursed suddenly. ‘Why do I feel sorry for the man?’
‘Tom? You feel sorry for Tom? Am I hearing this correctly? That crackpot has just pulled a gun on us, and you feel sorry for him? Or have you totally lost it?’
Luc looked at me. ‘It was a fake,’ he said evenly.
‘What?’
‘It was a fake – the gun – a replica.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I don’t know for certain, except it looked like one. But then you’d know all about that, being an army officer’s daughter.’
I sat back, astonished. ‘Oh yes, of course. My devoted colonel daddy ensured I cut my teeth on Walther PPKs, Berettas and the odd treat of a comforting Colt 45.’
‘There you go!’ he countered with spirit. ‘You sound as though you do.’
‘That’s from a youth misspent watching James Bond films.’
He nearly smiled. ‘Okay. Point taken. I didn’t mean to offend you.’
‘For your information, the only thing my father ever taught me about firearms is to treat them with an extremely healthy respect. I couldn’t even tell you if Tom’s gun was a pistol or a revolver. I was too bloody scared.’
He looked chastened. ‘Yes, I was too. I’m sorry, Alix. It was a stupid thing to say. I wasn’t thinking straight.’
‘I can’t think why not.’
We were quiet for a moment. I shivered suddenly. The jumper I was wearing was cotton and it was perishing in the cellar, doubtless good for the health of the wine but not for little me.
‘Here.’ Luc took off his tweed jacket. ‘Put this on. You’re in shock.’