Kate Mosse - Labyrinth

Karen shrugged. “It’s possible she thought you wouldn’t welcome the contact. Since we don’t know what caused the rift in the family, she might have thought your father had prejudiced you against her. In cases such as this, it’s not uncommon for an assumption to be made – sometimes rightly so – that any overture would be rejected. Once contact is severed it can be hard to repair the damage.”

“You didn’t draw up the will, I’m assuming?”

Karen smiled. “No, it was well before my time. But I talked to the colleague who did. He’s retired now, but he remembers your aunt. She was very matter-of-fact, no fuss or sentimentality. She knew exactly what she wanted, which was for everything to be left to you.”

“So you don’t know why she came to be living here in the first place?”

“I’m afraid not.” She paused. “From our point of view, it’s all relatively straightforward. So, as I said, I think your best bet is to go to the house and look around. You might find out more about her that way. Given you’re going to be around for a few days more, we can meet later in the week. I’m in court tomorrow and Friday, but I’d be happy to see you on Saturday morning if that is convenient.” She stood up and held out her hand. “Leave a message with my assistant and let me know what you decide.”

“I’d like to visit her grave while I’m here.”

“Of course. I’ll get the details. If I remember rightfully, the circumstances were unusual.” Karen stopped at her assistant’s desk on their way out. “Dominique, tu peux me trouver le numero du lot de cimitiere de Madame Tanner. La cimitiere de la Cite. Merci.”

“In what way unusual?” asked Alice.

“Madame Tanner wasn’t buried in Salleles d’Aude but here in Carcassonne, in the cemetery outside the Cite walls, in the family tomb of a friend.” Karen took the printout from her assistant and skimmed the information. That’s right, I remember now. Jeanne Giraud, a local woman, although there didn’t appear to be any evidence the two women even knew each other. Madame Giraud’s address is also here, along with the plot details.“

“Thank you. I’ll be in touch.”

“Dominique will show you out,” she smiled. “Let me know how you get on.”

Ariege

Paul Authie had expected Marie-Cecile to use the journey into the Ariege to continue last night’s discussion or else ask him about the report. But apart from the occasional comment, she said nothing.

In the confined space of the car, he was very physically aware of her.

Her perfume caught in his nose, the scent of her skin. Today she was K wearing a pale brown sleeveless shirt and matching trousers. Sunglasses concealed her eyes and her lips and nails were the same, burned red.

Authie shot the cuffs on his shirt, glancing discreetly at his watch. Allowing a couple of hours at the site, then the journey back, they were unlikely to be back in Carcassonne much before the end of the afternoon. lit was very frustrating.

“Any news of O’Donnell?” she said.

Authie was startled to hear his thoughts voiced aloud. “Not so far.”

“And the policeman?” she said, turning to face him.

There’s no longer a problem.“

“Since when?”

“Early this morning.”

“Did you learn anything more from him?”

Authie shook his head.

“So long as nothing can be traced back to you, Paul.”

It won’t be.“

She was silent for a moment, then asked: “And the English woman?”

“She arrived in Carcassonne last night. I’ve got someone tailing her.”

“You don’t think she went to Toulouse in order to deposit the ring or the book there?”

“Unless she handed it over to someone inside the hotel, then no. She had no visitors. She talked to no one, either in the street or in the library.” arrived at the Pic de Soularac just after one o’clock. A wooden palisade had been erected around the car park. The gate was padlocked shut. As arranged, there was no one on duty to witness their arrival.

Authie opened the gate and drove through. The site was unnaturally quiet after the activity of Monday afternoon. An air of abandonment hung about everything. The sides of the tents battened down, the pots and pans and rows of tools neatly labelled.

“Where’s the entrance?”

Authie pointed up to where the scene of crime tape still flapped in the breeze.

He took a torch from the glove compartment. They climbed up the lower slopes in silence, the oppressive afternoon heat weighing down on them. Authie pointed to the boulder, still lying on its side, like the head of a fallen idol, then led her the final few metres to the cave itself.

“I would like to go in alone,” she said as they reached the top.

He was irritated, but didn’t show it. He was confident there was nothing in the chamber for her to find. He’d combed every last centimetre of the cave himself. He handed her the torch.

“As you wish,” he said.

Authie watched as she disappeared into the tunnel, the beam of light getting weaker and more distant until it vanished altogether.

He wandered away from the entrance, until he was out of earshot.

Even being close to the chamber made him angry. His hand went to the crucifix at his neck, like a talisman to ward off the evil of the place.

“In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost,” he said, crossing himself. Authie waited until his breathing had returned to normal, before calling his office.

What have you got for me?“

A look of satisfaction spread across his face as he listened. “At the hotel? Did they speak to one another?” He listened to the reply. “OK.

Keep with her and see what she does.“

He smiled and disconnected. Something else to add to his list of questions for O’Donnell.

His secretary had found surprisingly little on Baillard. He had no car, no passport, was not listed at the land registry, no phone, nothing was registered within the system. Even his numero de securite sociale was missing.

Officially, he didn’t seem to exist. He was a man with no past.

It crossed Authie’s mind Baillard might be a disaffected ex-member of the Noublesso Veritable . His age, his background, his interest in Cathar history and knowledge of hieroglyphics linked him to the Labyrinth Trilogy.

Authie knew there was a connection. It was just a matter of finding it.

He would destroy the cave now, without a moment’s hesitation, were it not for the fact that he was still not in possession of the books. He was God’s instrument by which the four-thousand-year-old heresy would finally be wiped from the face of the earth. Only when the profane parchments were returned to the chamber would he act. Then he would give everyone and everything to the fire.

The thought that he only had two days in which to find the book spurred him back into action. His grey eyes sharp with conviction, Authie made another call.

“Tomorrow morning,” he said. “Have her ready.”

Audric Baillard was aware of the click of Jeanne’s brown shoes on the grey linoleum as they walked in silence through the hospital in Foix.

Everything else was white. His clothes, the colour of chalk, the uniforms of the technicians, their rubber-soled footwear, the walls, the charts, clipboards. Inspector Noubel, crumpled and dishevelled, stood out in the sterile environment. He looked as if he’d not changed for days.

A trolley was being pushed up the corridor towards them, its wheels creaking painfully in the hushed environment. They stood back to allow it to pass. The nurse acknowledged the courtesy with a slight bob of her head.

Baillard was aware that they were treating Jeanne with particular care. Their sympathy, no doubt genuine, was mixed with concern at how she would cope with the shock. He gave a grim smile. The young always forgot Jeanne’s generation had seen and experienced more than they ever had. War, the Occupation, the Resistance. They had fought and killed seen their friends die. They were tough. Nothing surprised them except, perhaps, for the dogged resilience of the human spirit.