Питер Мэй - I'll Keep You Safe

‘I don’t know, I’m waiting to hear.’

‘Where are you?’

‘In a waiting room outside the children’s ward.’

‘What about Jacqui?’

‘She’s here with me.’

‘Is she alright?’

‘Pretty upset. But seems okay otherwise.’

‘Let me speak to her. Put her on FaceTime.’

She called up the app and the screen flickered momentarily before a tearful Jacqui appeared. ‘ Maman , where are you?’ Too distressed to play the which twin am I game.

‘Baby, I’m coming home. I’ll be there just as soon as I can.’

‘Jacqui’s sick, maman .’

‘I know, darling. Are you okay?’

The little crumpled face nodded. ‘Is Claire going to be alright?’

‘She’s going to be just fine, sweetheart. Dad’ll take care of you till I get back.’

‘When? When will you be back?’

‘Just as soon as I can, darling, I promise.’

The image of the child swung away, and Gilles’s face appeared on the screen. He looked tired as he raised his eyebrows. She heard the sarcasm in his voice. ‘More promises?’

Braque clenched her teeth and tried to hang on to control. ‘Soon as I get off the phone I’ll book my flights. Should be home by tomorrow night. Keep me in the loop. Please. I want to know what’s happening.’

He sighed and nodded. ‘You should have been here, Sylvie.’

‘I will be.’

And he hung up before she could say any more. Even goodbye to Jacqui. She slumped on to the edge of the bed and sat, head bowed, hands clasped around her phone between her thighs, consumed by guilt. Yes, she should have been there. So many times she should have been there. And so many times she wasn’t. She remembered George Gunn’s words. Sometimes you just have to make choices. Exactly what she hadn’t done. If anything she had chosen the status quo, a means of avoiding making those impossible choices. Career or family. It had been clear to her very soon after the break-up of her marriage that she could not have both. And all she had done was put it off, and put it off. Until now it was too late. She should have been there. She should never have left her girls.

She spent the next hour on the phone and the internet, booking herself on the first flight from Stornoway to Glasgow in the morning. Then on to London, and from London to Paris. Flight schedules too tight to offer smooth connections, leaving her with no option but to sit fretting in Glasgow and London waiting for onward flights. Two hours in the case of Glasgow, three in London. Arriving in Paris at rush hour. The Périphérique at a standstill if she took a taxi or a bus, the RER jam-packed beyond capacity.

Her stress levels by the time she concluded her bookings left her shaking. She wanted to call Gilles again. She wanted to hear the verdict on Claire’s diagnosis, and the prognosis if the news was bad. But there was no point. He would call her if there were any developments.

She gazed now at the phone in her hand, and knew she had to make the call she had been putting off for so long. A call she should have made months, if not years ago. But even as she selected the number and touched Call , she realized she was going to fudge it. She asked switchboard to put her through to Capitaine Faubert’s office.

‘Faubert.’

She couldn’t tell from that one word what kind of mood he was in. Whether he had just been for a cigarette or was suffering from nicotine withdrawal.

‘Capitaine, it’s Lieutenant Braque. I’m coming home.’

‘I’ve been wondering why the hell you haven’t called, Braque. What’s happening?’

‘Nothing’s happening, Capitaine. The funeral’s over. One of my twins has suspected meningitis and has been admitted to hospital. I’ve booked flights home tomorrow.’

‘ Putain! ’ she heard him mutter under his breath. But she knew, too, that he could hardly argue. ‘I want your report on my desk first thing Friday morning.’ Which would mean an all-nighter Thursday night.

‘Yes, Capitaine.’

‘And we’ll talk then, Braque.’

‘Yes, boss.’ She understood perfectly well that ‘talk’ was code for ‘lecture’. A lecture on her failure to prioritize, to make a decision one way or another. Mother or cop. And she would be faced, finally, with the choices that Gunn had spoken of.

Two simple words would put an end to it all. I quit. So easy to say, but how hard might it be to live with the consequences? Especially if it turned out that Jacqui was okay, or made a full recovery. In fifteen years, when the girls left home for university, or got married, or grabbed whatever other opportunities life might offer them in adulthood, what would become of Braque? Alone and unfulfilled. Left with a life on which the clock was counting down, a life filled only with regrets for all the might-have-beens. How would she feel then?

She stood up and realized she had not changed out of her wet clothes. They were now nearly dry. But she decided to change them anyway, divesting herself of damp jeans and T-shirt, and slipping into the shower to wash away the salt and sand carried on the wind at Dalmore. It wasn’t until she was dressed, and drying her hair by the window, that she remembered the CCTV video footage waiting to be viewed at the police station. Gunn had said he would pick her up in half an hour, but that was hours ago.

She glanced from the window across the choppy waters of the inner harbour, boats rising and falling on a heavy swell, rolling in the wind that blew down the hill from the castle. Rain hammered against the window, and the sky was black as night. One of those equinoctial storms that the Atlantic threw at the island this time every year. Brutal and unforgiving. Shrugged off by islanders who were used to it by now. Had seen it all before. And tomorrow, in all likelihood, the sun would be out, shining on wet streets and houses, as if they had just been painted and everything was brand-new again.

Braque felt her jacket, which was draped over the back of a chair. Still damp. Her hair still wet from the shower. So what the hell? She decided just to make a dash for the police station. It wasn’t that far.

In the event, it was much further than she remembered. Especially in the rain. And by the time she had run breathlessly up Church Street from the harbour, and ducked into the warmth and shelter of reception at the police station, she was soaked to the skin once again. She shook the rain from her jacket, to the amusement of the duty officer, and swept rat’s tails of hair out of her face. ‘Better indoors on a day like this, Ma’am,’ he said.

She took out her ID to show him. ‘Lieutenant Sylvie Braque of the Police Judiciaire in Paris. I’ve been working with Detective Sergeant Gunn.’

‘Ah yes,’ he said. ‘George was trying to call you earlier.’ And she remembered the phone in her room ringing twice while she was talking to someone on her mobile about booking flights. By the time she got off the phone she had forgotten. Gilles would have called her mobile. ‘I believe he left a message.’

She took her phone from her pocket and saw that there was indeed a message. She replayed it and heard Gunn’s voice. ‘Sorry to mess you about Ma’am. I’ve been trying to reach you. I’m afraid I’ve been called away to an unexplained death down at Uig. More than likely a suicide, but it’s a three-hour round trip, and I’ll probably not have a signal for most of that time. I’ve left a terminal set up for you in the interview room. Any of the duty officers will show you how to use it. I’ll see you when I get back.’

She looked up from her screen and the duty officer smiled. ‘This way, Ma’am.’

He took her upstairs to an interview room at the back of the building. A computer with an external disk drive attached, a keyboard and a mouse sat on a plain white table with a single chair drawn up to it.