Hands of the Traitor

  He'd not take Louise back. Not like last time. Absolutely not. He slammed the car door. The polythene over the window tore free, and water from the folds cascaded onto the driver's seat.

  No Louise. No car. Life was a sod. He looked at the dark clouds and set off to catch the bus. Maybe Zoé Champanelle would brighten his afternoon.

  *

  ZOÉ HAD got to the White Lion first. The bus hadn't come and he'd been obliged to run. He arrived wet and out of breath. Instead of waiting outside, Zoé had chosen a seat where she could be seen by most of the men in the crowded pub. He wished he'd run faster.

  She looked surprisingly self assured in a navy and white floral print dress that clung to her body. She'd draped her coat over a spare chair. This was not the hesitant woman he remembered meeting yesterday by the medical books. He fetched her a drink from the bar and guessed he wasn't the first man to offer to buy her one that lunchtime.

  He sat facing Zoé across the small table in the low-ceilinged room. "Did you go back for the book?" It made as good an opener as any.

  She sipped her coke and lemon before carefully placing her glass in the center of the beer mat. Whatever lipstick she used, none had come off on the rim. Her smile lit up the pub as she shook her head. "Some of the English words were too technical for me."

  "I can't believe that. You talk English well." He picked up his beer. He was a teenager again, feeling awkward just being with her. But he didn't want Zoé to think he drank a lot. He replaced his half pint glass of beer on the table without drinking anything. "What's my French like?"

  She tapped him on the nose and giggled. "You talk French like an old-fashioned book."

  He blinked. "They told me at school I was good at languages."

  "Ah, l'ecole. At school I expect they had the old books."

  "An old teacher," said Matt, aware again of the arousal he got from her perfume. Where had she been all his life? "But you can understand me when I talk in French?"

  "Very well."

  "Your English is excellent. What are you doing here?"

  She blushed. "I came to England because ... to get ... to improve it."

  He wondered why the hesitation. "Seems fine to me. Are you nursing over here?"

  "I am staying in a hostel for French students."

  "You're a student?"

  "I have been a nurse for eight years now. The hostel is not just for the students. Maybe I will find work in an English hospital. And you, you have a family living close?"

  "Only my grandfather. He's not well." Perhaps he shouldn't be mentioning him at all, especially not to a nurse.

  "He is in an old people's house?"

  "Home. Old people's home. He's ... he's not there at the moment." He wasn't going to explain about the incident with the fruit and the fact that his grandfather had just been moved to a secure hospital.

  "And your parents?"

  "My dad couldn't cope. My parents are separated."

  "And you live alone?"

  "I do now. I've been living with..." The pause was too long and too obvious, but Zoé just smiled. He decided to take the initiative. "You have a boyfriend, Zoé?"

  She seemed taken aback by the bluntness of his question and took her time before replying. "I have what you English call ... an understanding. Is that it?"

  So this was the catch. He knew there would be one. But he laughed and put his glass beside hers. "An understanding? Now that's an old fashioned expression."

  "My English teacher was old too, so now I read the English books to learn everyday English. Fiction ... Romances."

  Had she paused and then emphasized the word romances deliberately? Perhaps not.

  "Not just medical books then?"

  "Only for my work. And why do you buy them, Matt, if you are a private investigator?"

  "I can't afford to buy them. I wanted to look something up. Can I ask you a medical question?"

  "Not a personal one, I hope."

  He loved her. "Everyone says my grandfather lost his marbles -- went mad -- at the end of the war. Now it's all started again. Can anyone still get screaming nightmares after sixty years?"

  "Can something be so terrible that the scars in the mind they never heal? Oui, I think it could be so. You make it sound horrible."

  "It is horrible. Something blew my granddad's brain in northern France. He used to talk to me about it, but I don't know if he was telling the truth. The doctors aren't bothering to treat him any more because they say they can't find a physical cause. Quite honestly I'm worried sick."

  "You are sick?" She leaned forward and brushed his cheek with the back of her hand.

  "It's an expression." He waited for Zoé to touch him again but she stayed in her seat. He swallowed a mouthful of beer. "They weren't looking after him properly at the nursing home. No one visited, except me." He might as well tell Zoé everything. "They've moved him to a mental hospital because they say he's a danger to others. My family has done nothing to help him over the years, and I want to make sure he gets the right treatment at last."

  Zoé looked around the bar which had suddenly grown noisier as the Saturday lunchtime regulars crowded in. "It is very loud in here. You would like me to help?"

  Matt raised his voice to be heard above the shouting and the piped music. "I don't think they'd let you near him. But thanks. It's just good to be able to talk to someone who understands." Then he realized that Zoé Champanelle was offering to spend more time with him. "I could take you to see him."

  He groaned inwardly as he realized what he'd said. Come and meet my grandfather -- he's insane. As a chat-up line it had to equal an invite to a public execution. He could just as easily have suggested an uncomplicated evening in town. He'd only mentioned his grandfather in the first place to explain why he was looking at medical books, to let her know that he wasn't a sick weirdo -- which she probably now thought he was. It hadn't been a serious invitation. He blamed the scent coming from Zoé.

  To his surprise she smiled, showing an attractive if somewhat wide mouth. "I think perhaps you have the problems in your life. If I went with you I could not give a medical opinion."

  "Just the opinion of a friend."

  The smile went instantly at the word friend. She shook her head. "I am a nurse, and that is all."

  He'd blown it. A trip to the local asylum was never going to win a fair maiden's heart, even though Zoé's hair was dark brown and anything but fair. He'd been given a chance to start life again, and had got everything wrong from the word go.

  "Yes, I will go with you."

  He stared in amazement. "There's a problem. They won't let me see my grandfather till he's settled down." Always there were problems. There had to be a way to stay in contact with Zoé over the next few days. "We could go to the cinema this evening. Or back to my place now for a meal. I know how to open the freezer and put food in the microwave."

  "Non." She sounded certain. Then she smiled. "It is kind of you, Matt. Perhaps we could go somewhere for a pizza?"

  "I know a good Italian restaurant." He looked at his watch. "We could go straight there. The food here is awful."

  "And I will pay half."

  "No you won't."

  "Please, I would like to."

  It was probably a well-meaning offer, but he didn't intend to take Zoé up on it. "You can pay your share next time." Next time? He hadn't meant it to sound as though meals were to be a permanent fixture, but Zoé nodded and smiled in response.

  "D'accord."

  No problem there then. He finished his beer. "Drink up and we'll go."

  "And you can tell me what happened to your grandfather in France."

  *

  Northern France -- Seven days later -- Saturday

  HENK VAN HETEREN had what he called a significant collection of military relics from both World Wars. The collection had once been on exhibition in Antwerp, making his name a legend around the Dutch metal detecting clubs. Members sometimes joked that he could home in on wartime remain
s with his detector switched off. He didn't laugh at observations like this because it wasn't amusing. He had plenty of admirers, but very few friends who wanted to come with him on field trips. Anyway, he preferred working alone.

  As far as Henk was concerned, spectators were a nuisance. They were fools who stood in the way, gaping at whatever came up from the bottom of the holes he dug with his trowel -- or with his very sharp knife.

  Henk Van Heteren wanted to work unaccompanied and unwatched. Today his metal detector had failed to give a decent signal for the past ten minutes; just the occasional squawk of unwanted trash. Yet within an hour of arriving on this site he'd received a small, clean signal -- before the fools gathered. The hand had been little more than a skeleton, with a signet ring on the middle finger. A right hand. He'd wiped the dirt from it with his sleeve and revealed a large gold ring engraved with two ornate letters and a single eye. A green gemstone filled the eye. Slipping the ring into the bag, he'd dropped the disintegrating hand back into the hole. Only metal remains were of interest.

  The extension to the French out-of-town shopping mall promised some exciting finds. The Germans had occupied this area near Calais in both World Wars. There were pieces of metal in the ground, definitely military, and mostly World War Two. Yesterday the construction team had found a small aluminum panel with Nazi markings.

  Germans had built steel launch ramps for their flying bombs on sites like this in the Calais area of northern France. Pieces of ferrous scrap metal infested the ground, and only his long experience with the detector made it possible to avoid the spurious signals that intruded every time he swung the search head. Steel was nothing but a curse. He had to move slowly, and he had to move carefully.

  In a few weeks the foundations for a shopping mall would cover this piece of land. If there were Nazi relics under the soil he might have to call the club down for a mass search.

  Mass searches weren't so good, because mass searches involved people.

  Henk looked warily at the crowds visiting the new supermarket for their Saturday shopping. The car park overlooked this area of ground marked out by ancient drainage ditches. The site was abandoned for the weekend. Le week-end, as they said locally. He almost smiled as he recalled this French use of English, and continued to move slowly over the dry grass, wearing his headphones and keeping the white search head of the detector close to the ground. People paused to stare as they pushed their laden trolleys of groceries back to their cars. Several families came down the slope to watch as he prepared to dig another small hole. What did they think he was looking for -- Captain Kidd's bloody treasure?

  "Go home, there's nothing to see!"

  The stupid children stood excitedly, their silly chatter attracting a group of friends. Before long a swarm of people descended on the site. Half-witted fathers who'd come to collect their kids now stayed to watch. There had been nothing interesting in the last five holes, but everyone stood open-mouthed as they waited for the signal that heralded the crock of gold.

  Henk sighed. He needed to concentrate on the meter reading on the control box, on the crispness of the sound in the headphones, on the area over which the signal came. Every year he saved himself hundreds of hours of wasted digging by carefully analyzing the signals. He knew of no one else who could find small objects on this junk infested site.

  He turned his back on the spectators in the hope they'd lose interest. The day was hot and tempers were frayed. Two children crouched down and their small hands darted into the hole just as he unearthed a circle of shiny metal. One kid nearly got his hand cut by the knife. Henk pushed him out of the way -- rather roughly -- but only because he was in danger.

  The boy fell backwards and hit his head on the ground. He began to scream, and his father was standing just behind.

  The argument that followed made Henk irritable. The French father seemed unable to understand that a metal circle might be the end of a live shell case. Ammunition hidden in the ground for a long time could be dangerous, but Henk reckoned he knew how to deal with it.

  He didn't know how to deal with stupid parents.

  The father obviously believed he knew how to deal with treasure hunters who pushed his son around. He lashed out with his foot. Henk stood up quickly and towered above the man. The father swore a torrent of abuse and tried to pull his son back towards the car park.

  His son refused to go. "C'est de l'or!" he shouted, wrenching himself free.

  Henk knew the excited kid was right: the metal circle was undoubtedly gold. Brass went green after a couple of years in the ground. The boy's cry was like the bugle horn of the huntsman. Henk watched helplessly as the bystanders surged forward for a sight of the treasure. More families hurried down the slope from the car park to see what all the excitement was about.

  "It's gold! Nazi gold!"

  There seemed to be plenty of self-styled military experts in the crowd ready to pass on the good news to their excited neighbors. Henk hated them all as he stood with his large boot over the hole, his pulse racing. Nazi gold -- it just might be. It wasn't a coin. For all the world it looked like the end of a gold cartridge case.

  "Go away! Allez vous en!" He wasn't going to hide his anger.

  The gathering crowd behaved as though they could almost smell the treasure. Gold bars with the Nazi eagle. At least twenty of them; some said fifty. The word got round quickly.

  The rumors of Nazi treasure seemed to expand with every telling, and now everyone wanted to look into the small hole. Henk kept his boot firmly across the top.

  "Show us the gold," someone at the back yelled in exasperation while Henk continued to cover the spot where he'd first glimpsed the shining circle.

  But he knew he had no alternative. Slowly he bent down and scratched the earth away with his knife. He resented doing this under the gaze of a crowd of shoppers, but if he walked away someone else would quickly take over the digging. He now hoped the object would be brass. Perhaps in some strange way it had managed to keep its polish.

  "It is gold!" The boy he'd pushed aside had wriggled back to the front. "Regardez, monsieur! Elle est une bougie, a candle!"

  The kid was nothing but a menace.

  Henk placed the small cylindrical object on the grass beside the hole. He'd now found two gold items on this site.

  He took the signet ring from his pocket to examine it again. The initials had no obvious Nazi connection, nor did the green eye. It was a quality ring. An officer's perhaps. For a moment he was oblivious to the people pushing all around. Then he saw the gold cylinder disappear from beside his right foot. The boy held it up for everyone to see, then began to twist the top.

  As Henk reached over to grab it, he sniffed. Something smelt disgusting, like tom-cats. He had his knife in his hand as he reached forward, lashing out at the bewildered boy. The wretched French kid wasn't going to get away with it.

  In panic the boy threw the cylinder to the ground as the crowd surged forward. Henk watched a swarm of Frenchmen come towards him, their feet trampling the object into the soft earth. He lunged at them with his knife.

  A young man with a shaved head diverted the blow, catching hold of Henk's wrist and forcing him down into the soil. The man snatched at the knife. The Dutchman used his feet as he lay on his back, kicking the man in the stomach and sending him backwards into the crowd of parents and children. The knife flew end over end high into the air in a flashing arc, embedding itself in a woman's shoulder as it landed, like a knife-throwing act that ended in tragedy.

  Her scream seemed to cause rage more than panic. A tall man seized it by the handle, slashing the woman's neck as he pulled it away. The woman's husband darted forward to grab hold of the blade but it caught his wrist. Blood shot across people's faces before they could turn away.

  Turning away seemed to be an action that was noticeably absent. Everyone wanted to be involved in the ensuing fight. The Dutchman's knife wasn't the only weapon around. Several blades flashed in the sunlight, their owners spurre
d into frenzy by the sight of blood. Or maybe it was the foul smell that drifted across the hysterical pack.

  The children, used to the rough and tumble of playground life, were eager to be participants rather than spectators. A child psychiatrist would have been surprised to learn that the girls were as aggressive as the boys, perhaps even more so. But the adults had the knives, and the children became the sacrificial victims.

  Then as suddenly as it started the air seemed to clear. People stood in horror, staring at the bodies on the ground. As the crowd began to drift away the sirens of the gendarmes' cars could be heard. Henk lay where he had fallen, a gold ring clutched tightly in his fist. Rigor mortis would set in soon, making it hard to remove the ring from his grasp.

  *

  A CRAZED knifeman outside a supermarket would have sounded sufficiently gruesome to ensure at least a fleeting mention in the foreign press. But a fight involving over thirty shoppers, seventeen of them children, sent the weekend newsrooms into a frenzy. There were six deaths and fourteen serious injuries. The authorities had already sealed the site to prevent further digging.

  The story had all the ingredients of a nightmare movie. Knife blow after knife blow, so the eyewitnesses claimed.

  There were fathers trying to protect their screaming children, fighting with each other, and the herd falling as they ran. Stones and iron bars from the construction site used as weapons. Finally the most sensational part of the story: the mob seizing the knife, and the Dutchman hacked to death by his own weapon. All for a gold ring. Someone insisted it was a gold candle.

  Captain Lacoste, the local chief of the gendarmes, proudly showed the press a signet ring found in the Dutchman's hand. He allowed anyone with a suitable lens to take close-ups. Yes, he was investigating to find out if it had any bearing on the riot, but he denied finding anything resembling a gold candle. He explained that the fight demonstrated the dangers of greed and envy, as well as the hazards of treasure hunting. The local reporter reckoned that Lacoste was an idiot.

  Chapter 3

  England -- Monday

  "THAT FRENCH girl you've been going out with for the past week. Isn't she a medical doctor or something?"