The Rift by Rachel Lynch (good book recommendations txt) 📕

ferns. The heady scent was just as strong in winter. She preferred to ski in France because it offered the widest pistes, and it was drivable from anywhere in Europe. She’d skied in Germany and Austria, and they were prettier, but the French knew how to build a resort. She loved the Alps and any time she got to go adventure training with the army, it had been to go skiing. One of her more memorable postings was to Cyprus, and her trips to the Troodos Mountains, where they had about three workable runs, but she mustn’t be ungrateful. It was no Les Arcs, but it did mean they could drive to Larnaca afterwards, within an hour, and get shit-faced. She smiled at the memories, but a frown soon followed. The pattern never changed; she couldn’t think about Grant now without feeling the intense pain that accompanied it.

She tore herself from the view and tried to concentrate on the information in the file but seeing Grant’s name had affected her beyond expectation. It took several attempts for her to work out a timeline. Like a senior investigating officer in the civilian police, she applied her knowledge of crime scenes and created a chronology of Hakim’s last known movements. She studied the casefiles for the two pilots, who’d been found inside the aircraft bound and gagged, showing signs of severe dehydration. They’d sat on the tarmac in over forty-degree heat, with the sun pelting through the cockpit windows, the engines and air-con off, for close to an hour. Interviewed by French gendarmerie soon afterwards, they’d given artist’s impressions of the two men who bound them. She looked over them now and they were generic sketches of men with dark hair and darker glasses. Both pilots had stated when interviewed that they knew nothing of the impending plot. They also suspected nothing untoward between landing and taxiing until the men entered the cockpit.

In answer to the query over how the two men had been able to access the cockpit, they’d replied that they never locked the door on private flights for Mr Dalmani’s family. It seemed likely only the Dalmani family and Jean-Luc would know this. By the time the alarm was raised, any car carrying Hakim might have left the city. He could be anywhere.

Next, she turned her attention to Fawaz bin Nabil. The file, compiled before she left Paris, was huge. There was no way she’d get it read by the time she reached Lyon, and so she skimmed, using her instinct, to search for keywords and dates. She could see that Fawaz and Khalil’s fathers had gone into business together in the 1970s, around the same time Basem had begun working for the Dalmani family. Had Fawaz known the Bissets? It seemed to Helen an important, if not crucial, question, and she searched the file to see if there was a connection. Fawaz’s company, Nabil Tradings, was a relatively new set-up – registered in the 1990s, after the death of Nabil senior. This is when the two companies parted ways. The Bisset family remained loyal to the Dalmanis. Why?

Was Fawaz pissed off? Sir Conrad had said it was Fawaz’s ‘filthy’ drugs trade that put off the Dalmanis, and she needed to know if this was true.

Her detective nose was kicking in and she had to remind herself to take care when being drawn down potential rabbit holes. It had happened before. Sometimes family rifts provided red herrings that seemed perfectly suited to a particular motive: the traditional lusty greed for land, money and power. This case had it all. However, her job was to sort through the reeds and come up with solid evidence that would make the most of her time. One thing was for sure: she couldn’t interview Jean-Luc, and she couldn’t interview Fawaz Nabil. She could, however, interview Khalil Dalmani. But to do that, she was also acutely aware that she’d have to go through, or at least deal with in some capacity, Grant Tennyson.

She left Fawaz’s file for a moment and went back to Jean-Luc’s, searching for any connection between the families. She found a series of photos and flicked through them. A waiter pushing a trolley came towards her, and Helen ordered a coffee. Long train journeys made her too comfortable and thus weary; it was something to do with the gentle rhythm of the unwavering speed, as well as the hush. She stretched and yawned and stirred sugar into her drink.

She went back to the photos and one caught her attention. It was a group photo taken in the 1990s, and right at the centre was Nabil senior; he’d died later that year. She squinted and got close to the photograph. Next to his father, she recognised Fawaz. He was a striking young man, and unforgettable. His most recent photo supplied by US Intelligence was of him attending an arms deal in Saudi Arabia two years ago. He hadn’t changed much, and his eyes jumped from the picture, despite its age. A small shiver ran through her when she noticed the man next to him, whom he had his arm around. They looked like brothers and beamed for the camera. The face was unmistakeable, though he’d aged like all of them. The man in Fawaz’s hold was Khalil Dalmani.

Not far away, also smiling for the camera, but off centre and not as well turned out as the two men embracing, was a face she also recognised. It was Jean-Luc. It didn’t take long for Helen to pick out his parents too. Basem looked older than his years and Marie looked proud but wary. It was a photo depicting a chilling hierarchy, and sure enough, the periphery was made up of household servants. But they too were smiling. And why wouldn’t they be? They were given a good life by these two families. By the time this photograph had been taken, the Dalmanis and the Nabils would have been filthy rich, and Helen knew