Venom, page 23
‘Good. Helping catch criminals is your job. But do it the usual way. Assist and inform, Captain. You're not in Homicide now.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Budjinski picked up the folder and walked out of the office.
Alan Regan. Is that your name? Whoever you are, you’re mine now.
Chapter 30
‘So when do I meet this boyfriend of yours?’
Jean-Claude stood in the bathroom doorway and watched as she put gloss on her lips. Valentine examined her reflection in the glass. ‘Soon. I promise.’
‘You could bring him up here one afternoon for tea.’
‘Perhaps when I know him better.’
‘You don't want him to meet me, do you?’
‘Of course I do. Have you seen my scarf? The Hermès.’
‘It's on the hall stand where you left it last night. I just want to meet him once. You don't have to be ashamed of me, you know. I know how to behave. I dined with royalty when I was with the Service Publique.’
Valentine ran to the hall stand and tied the scarf around her hair. ‘It's just that afternoon tea isn't quite his thing, you know.’
‘What is this young man's thing?’
‘He likes restaurants, nightclubs. The casino.’
‘The casino! And it's too much to ask him to spare one afternoon from gambling away his money to have tea with us?’
‘Where's my bag?’
‘In your room underneath the bed.’
Valentine ran back into her bedroom, got down on to her knees and peered under the bed. Jean- Claude was reminded of his raucous little tomboy in Dakar. ‘I just want to meet him, that's all.’
‘Then why don't you come downstairs and say hello. He'll be here soon.’
‘Why doesn't he ever come up here?’
‘I don't know why. Because I said I'd meet him downstairs I suppose.’ Valentine stood up. ‘How do I look?’
Jean-Claude examined her critically. A change had come over her in the last few weeks, since she had been seeing this latest man. She had become distant and distracted, and her cheeks seemed to glow from some inner radiance. Now, in the black Patou copy that showed off her legs, and her hair teased into a chignon, she looked achingly young and exquisitely beautiful.
‘You'll catch your death,’ he said.
She kissed him on the cheek. ‘Thank you, Papa.’
‘He's special this one, isn't he?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You've seen him every day for practically three weeks. Do you love him?’
A horn sounded in the street. ‘That's him!’ Valentine shrieked and ran laughing for the door.
Jean-Claude peered down into the street. ‘He's got a different car.’
‘He hires them.’
‘Hires them?’
‘A bientôt!’
‘Valentine!’
‘Papa?’
He hesitated. ‘Enjoy yourself.’
The door slammed shut behind her.
Jean-Claude watched from the window as she ran across the street and jumped into the black Porsche. It disappeared, with a throaty growl, up the street.
He sighed and turned away from the window, tried to ignore the sense of foreboding. Just an old man pining for his daughter growing away from him, he told himself. That's all.
♦ ♦ ♦
The Pont D'Alexandre Trois was silhouetted against a twilight sky. Michel and Valentine walked across, hand-in-hand, towards the floodlit dome of the Invalides.
‘I have to leave soon.’
‘How soon?’
‘Three more days.’
She had known it could not be forever. She had known that from the beginning. ‘Well, three days is a long time.’
‘I have to get back to work.’
‘That's all right. I promise I won't make it hard for you.’
He turned her around to face him. ‘Being who you are, you could not make it any harder to leave you. That is why I want you to come with me.’
‘But, I can't.’
‘What?’
‘I can't.’
‘Why not?’
‘Paris is my home.’
‘That's not an answer.’
‘I'm sorry. It’s the only answer I have.’
‘But you love me!’
She stared at him, stunned by his reaction. It was an odd thing to say. Not I love you; You love me.
‘Yes, I think I do.’
‘Then why not?’
She knew he could not understand. Perhaps a man who had never had a family could never understand.
‘It's your father, isn't it?’
‘He'll die if I leave. I can't just abandon him.’
‘We have our whole life in front of us! He's had his.’
‘I'm sorry. Please try to understand.’ He turned away from her, defeated. She gingerly placed one hand on his. ‘We still have three days.’
‘I envy him. I wish someone would love me that much.’
‘I do.’
‘No, you don't. Not yet.’
He looked suddenly like a small boy. He put his head on her shoulder and she stroked his hair, startled and suddenly afraid for him. All men were little boys really, she thought. Behind the face that they put on for the world, they were just little boys.
♦ ♦ ♦
‘What's the matter?’
‘Nothing, Papa.’
‘Of course something is wrong. Your coffee's getting cold and you haven't touched your croissant.’
‘I'm just not hungry.’
‘You were crying last night. I heard you. These walls are very thin you know.’
‘I wasn't crying.’
‘I'm not a fool, Valentine. Have you seen yourself this morning? I can tell when a woman's been crying. I’m a man who has had a lot of practice with that.
Valentine covered her face with her hands. ‘He's leaving. He's going back to Hong Kong or Singapore or somewhere.’
‘Who? This boyfriend of yours?’
‘He was only in Paris on business. Now he has to go back.’
Jean-Claude held out his arms. Valentine came around the table and flopped miserably onto his lap. ‘I warned you about this, didn't I? You should have listened to me.’
‘I love him, Papa.’
‘But he doesn't love you, does he?’ He felt Valentine stiffen in his arms. ‘Does he?’
‘Actually, I think he does.’
‘You think - or you know?’
‘He wants me to go with him.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘I said no, of course.’
‘Did you want to go with him?’
Valentine nodded.
‘You said no because of me, then.’ Jean-Claude said. You selfish old fool, he told himself. She is willing to give up her career, some man that she loves, her whole life, everything, for you.
But isn't that what you wanted?
‘I'd better get ready for work,’ she said.
‘Valentine, call him up. If you want to … tell him you'll go. Please … don't worry about me.’
Valentine kissed him on the forehead. ‘I'll be home about six tonight. I'll cook your favorite, bourguignon.’
A quarter of an hour later, as she put on her coat and scarf, Jean-Claude was still sitting at the breakfast table, staring at the wall. ‘Goodbye Papa,’ Valentine called.
But he didn't answer. Valentine closed the door gently behind her.
♦ ♦ ♦
Michel watched her leave the apartment from the doorway of the boulangerie across the street. He waited a few minutes, then took a pair of black leather gloves from his pocket and slipped them on. He walked quickly across the street. He had taken an impression of Valentine’s key one afternoon while she slept. He let himself in and decided to take the stairs rather than the elevator.
Jean-Claude heard the front door open and close. He assumed it was his daughter. ‘Valentine? What did you forget?’ He looked up from his newspaper and saw a stranger standing in the doorway of his living room. The man had on a knee-length black leather coat and expensive shoes.
‘Hello Jean-Claude. May I come in?’
‘Who the hell are you?’
‘You know who I am.’ He stood in the middle of the room with his hands in the pockets of his coat and looked around, as if he was thinking of buying the place. ‘Have I disturbed your breakfast?’
Jean-Claude let the croissant drop onto his plate. ‘What are you doing here?’
Michel bunched the older man's dressing gown in his fist and picked him up off the chair with one hand. He dragged him across the room and threw him into an armchair. Jean-Claude would have cried out but he was so terrified he couldn’t even speak.
Michel put a boot on the chair between his knees and leaned in. ‘Perhaps you don’t know who I am.’
All that came out was a squeak.
Michel shook his head. He looked around the room for the liquor cabinet. He found some pastis, splashed a couple of fingers into a glass and handed it to him. ‘Come on, I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to talk.’
Jean-Claude was shaking so hard he could barely hold the glass, never mind drink what was in it. He spilled most of the contents down his pajamas. Impatient, Michel grabbed the glass and poured what was left down his throat. Jean-Claude almost choked on it, but by the time he had done coughing he had at least found his voice again.
‘What do you want?’
‘Did she ever tell you about me?’
‘Valentine said you were ...’
‘Not Valentine! Adrienne!’
‘Adrienne? How do you know about her …?’
‘She really never told you, huh? Not even when she was drunk? She was always very forgetful. I seem to have completely slipped her mind when I was four years old.’
‘Oh my God.’ Jean-Claude said. Suddenly he knew what it was that had destroyed her beauty and her mind. This was the demon she had been trying to escape.
‘Ah, now you get it, don’t you? Yes, I'm your wife’s little secret.’ Michel leaned over him, his gloved hands resting on each arm of the chair. ‘I wasn't going to come. But Valentine has said to me so many times 'Papa is dying to meet you'. So here I am.’
Jean-Claude groaned as the full import of it hit him. ‘Valentine! But you and her ... no! You mustn't! She doesn't know! She—’
Michel put a hand over his mouth. ‘Shut up! Of course she doesn't know! She's never going to know. She's mine now. There's only one thing standing between us. Do you know who that is?’
Jean-Claude was not listening. He was no longer afraid for himself; he was afraid for his daughter. He had to do something. He kicked out and tried to haul himself out of the chair, get away from this sick bastard. But Michel was far too strong for him. He reached into his pocket and took out a bottle of chloroform and a rag. He clamped it over Jean-Claude’s mouth and held it there. The struggle was over very quickly. He was almost tender in the way that he eased him onto the floor.
Jean-Claude’s last thoughts were for his daughter. He prayed to God that somehow, someone would save her from this demon.
Chapter 31
It was the release of the Mary Quant summer collection at the Ritz ballroom. Valentine was helping one of the other girls into her dress in the changing room when Marco, the agency's hairdresser, came in and told her that there were two men outside asking to speak to her urgently.
‘I think they’re flics,’ he added in a frightened whisper.
The two men looked uncomfortable in their crumpled suits among the array of glittering gowns. ‘Mademoiselle Breton?’
Valentine looked into their faces and knew. She felt her heart lurch. ‘Yes?’
‘I regret to inform you there has been an accident.’
‘My father?’
‘I am afraid so.’
‘He's dead, isn't he?’
‘I am sorry.’
‘What happened?’
‘He was found on the concrete outside the sous-sol at about eight o'clock this morning. No one seems to have heard or seen anything. We think he must have fallen from the balcony.’
She felt quite calm, though she knew that wouldn’t last. In a way she had been waiting for this to happen ever since her mother died. ‘I'll get my coat.’
She remembered nothing of the trip to the hospital with the two detectives. It was a blur. It was only when she reached the hospital that time began to slow down again.
She insisted on seeing his body.
A white-coated attendant led the way to the morgue. The two flics waited while he opened one of the drawers and pulled back the sheet.
He was grey-blue. His right cheek had caved from by the impact of the fall and the bare white bone glistened in the harsh strip lighting. His lips were drawn back from his teeth in a silent scream, temporarily frozen in place by rigor.
‘Are you all right, Mademoiselle?’ the attendant asked.
‘I'm fine,’ she told him.
And then she fainted.
♦ ♦ ♦
She woke up in her own bed. Thank God, she thought. It had all been just a bad dream.
But then she turned her head and saw the family priest sitting in a chair beside the bed. He patted her hand. ‘It's all right. Just relax. You've had a terrible shock. The doctor has given you a sedative. You must rest now.’
The next time she opened her eyes there was another man sitting there, another flic. He started asking her questions. Had your father been depressed for very long? Had he ever talked about killing himself?
Oh, no. Papa. Is that what you did? Did you do it for me?
She shook her head. ‘No, he never talked about suicide. But yes, he had been depressed ever since my mother died. It’s possible it wasn’t an accident.’
But why didn’t he leave a note?
She slept again and when she opened her eyes again it was evening and Michel was leaning over the bed and holding her hand. ‘Oh my darling, I'm so sorry. When I phoned the agency to say goodbye they said that there had been an accident. I cancelled the flight and came as quickly as I could.’
‘Thank you,’ Valentine whispered. ‘Please. Don't go. I need you here.’
‘I promise I won't leave you. Everything's going to be all right. I’m here now. We don’t have to be apart ever again.’
♦ ♦ ♦
It rained the day they buried Jean-Claude Breton.
Valentine did not remember the service. She leaned against Michel, grateful for his strong arms around her. The ground looks so damp and cold, she thought. He doesn't like it when it's cold.
She didn't want to go back to that apartment. Not now. Not ever. ‘Take me away from Paris,’ she whispered. ‘Just get me away from here.’
‘I’ll do anything you want,’ Michel whispered. ‘I'll take care of you now, Valentine. I’ll take care of you always.’
PART FIVE
The Serpent Strikes
June 1972
Chapter 32
Michel took her everywhere.
In Athens they ate red caviar and taramasalata on the teratza of the famous Grande Bretagne hotel, looking down over the fountains and orange trees of the Syntagma while the setting sun turned the Parthenon the color of honey.
They stayed on a houseboat on the Dal Lake in Kashmir, where lotuses grew on the water like a choking pancake carpet of verdant green. They sat on the deck and watched the shikaras glide across the lake while a lady with a twin-set-and-pearls voice read the All India news.
In India Michel hired a limousine to drive them from their hotel at the Oberoi-Intercontinental to see the Taj Mahal at Agra. Valentine was enchanted. A monument to one man's extravagant love and power, it perched on the edge of a cliff like an ice palace floating in the sky.
‘It's unbelievable,’ she breathed, ‘that one man should do all this for love.’
‘Not for love,’ Michel had told her. ‘For grief. The Shah Jahan did not build it for her while she alive. It was only when he lost her that he realized how much she meant to him. Grief is stronger than love. For grief, a man will do anything.’
In Nepal they trekked up the Sherpa paths to Nagarkot, alone with the silence of the mountains, the only sounds the faint tinkling of yak bells and the whip of the prayer flags in the Himalayan winds. At dawn the next day they watched the sun rise over the roof of the world, the Himalaya spread in panorama before them, from Dhaulagiri in the west to Kanchenjunga in the east.
Michel was like no man she had ever known. He seemed to pulse with energy and whenever they walked into a room all eyes turned towards him. And yet he only seemed to have eyes for her.
It was like a dream, but like every dream Valentine wondered when it would end. He spent vast amounts in restaurants and rented cars, and they always stayed at the best hotels. He had an endless supply of credit cards.
He seemed to have forgotten all about the ‘business’ that had been urgent enough to make him leave Paris. Whenever she asked him about it, he became evasive and angry. After two months constantly at his side she still knew almost nothing about him.
She tried not to think about that part of it. She just wanted to enjoy the present. He had got her through those first few miserable weeks after her father's suicide; she loved him now more than she had ever loved anything. He was unpredictable and exciting; and he made her feel more like a woman than any man ever had.
She could not get enough of him. At night they fell asleep exhausted in each other's arms, their bodies still intertwined.
One night in Bangkok as they lay naked side by side on their hotel bed Michel whispered: ‘You're quiet tonight. What are you thinking?’
‘I was thinking that I've told you everything about me, but I still know hardly anything about you.’
‘There's nothing to know. I'm a very simple man … with simple needs.’ His hand caressed the silky skin inside her thigh.
‘Do you live like this all the time? A five star gypsy?’
‘I have apartments in Hong Kong and Manila. But I hardly ever go there.’
‘But what about your business? You must have an office.’
‘My business is in my head. As I make money I spend it. I don't want to build an empire. Is that so wrong?’
