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

aubergine. He ate and felt revived and alert after as he lay on the bed. Sometime later, the man came back with a chamber pot covered with a towel, and some tissues. He also brought more water and took away the tray. He still didn’t speak or make eye contact. Hakim found it curious that this old man never once seemed to give the impression that he was wary of his position. At any moment, Hakim could have overpowered him, knocked him out and escaped.

And that’s when Hakim knew that there were others, probably armed. They’d been quiet, but Hakim had been obsessing about water too much to pay attention. Now, whenever he strained his ears against the door, he heard them. He closed his eyes to get used to their voices. As well as the old man, he believed there to be two others. The old man who never spoke came in twice a day, to bring food and water and replace his chamber pot. Hakim concentrated on remembering every detail he’d absorbed. As he grew used to his surroundings, his senses had sharpened, and he heard snatched noises from outside, as well as the voices of the guards, what they spoke about, and routine traffic outside. He still hadn’t worked out where he was, but it was urban and busy. He visualised the map of France and all the towns and cities that lay to the south of Paris. He could be anywhere. The men talked about food a lot and he knew they played cards and smoked. They argued about winning and cheating, and even sometimes threatened one another with violence. Hakim willed them to begin a fight, then perhaps he could get out of here.

The door opened, and the old man came in bearing the same tray as yesterday. Hakim sat up on his bed and tried to look beyond the door, but it was on a spring and it closed. The man set the tray down and on it was a jug of juice and a bowl of some kind of stew.

‘Merci,’ Hakim said in perfect French. The man didn’t look at him but nodded. It was something; it was a form of human acknowledgement and a reason to be positive.

‘Do you know why I’m here?’ Hakim continued in the language familiar to him since early childhood.

The man stopped. He turned back to Hakim and looked at him in the eye. There was kindness there, and Hakim tried to read him, but it was impossible. He shrugged.

‘Is it to get money from my father?’

‘We don’t need money,’ the man said. He was French.

‘What is your name?’

He left and closed the door. Hakim sighed and sat on his bed. If they didn’t want or need money, then what did they want?

Chapter 15

They gave Helen a desk near to Sylvia’s and she settled in to her new environment. The Irish woman didn’t seem at all put out at the intrusion. Helen knew that with her years of experience, Sylvia was more than capable of running a missing-person case herself, but her interest in Helen’s expertise was genuine and welcome. It made her feel at ease. She’d unpacked her things, which were sparse: a pencil case, her personal laptop for notes, the files she’d been given in Paris and her own coffee cup. She stared at the computer screen, from which she could gain access to live updates on any current case investigated by the giant operation that made up Interpol. The first time she’d been here was terror related, and she’d been part of a vast incident team tracking CCTV across France. She’d soon made herself at home. Sylvia was a quiet work companion until she fancied a chat, which she did now.

‘Family with you?’ asked Sylvia.

It caught Helen unprepared. ‘No, just me. I’m not married. You?’ she replied.

‘Hubby has been a stay-at-home dad for the past twenty years, following me around my postings. Now the kids are grown up, and he’s likely off sipping coffee and planning his next bridge contest.’

Helen smiled. The vision of domesticity was comforting. That’s what normal people do, she thought.

‘Where have you been posted?’ Helen asked.

‘It’s easier if you ask where we haven’t. Here is our favourite though. I’ll show you around when we get a chance. There’s a great little strip of cafes and bars along the river close to here. But you’ve been here before though, right?’

‘Yes. It’s nice to be back. I finished an assignment in Paris, so they sent me to lend a hand, not that you need me, of course,’ Helen added.

‘If we didn’t need you, you wouldn’t be here. I’ve got thousands of cases like this ongoing. It’s a help to me for you to take the lead on this one. It’s a hot potato, right?’

Helen found the metaphor endearing; the Irish always brought stuff back to food or drink.

‘That’s what I’m here to find out. Fawaz Nabil’s increased interest in mainland Europe is odd timing given the abduction of Hakim Dalmani and the forthcoming summit. The UK ambassador wants watertight assurance that it’s not going to affect security.’

‘Watertight is a bit ambitious,’ Sylvia said.

Helen laughed. ‘Yeah, I agree, but as close as I can get it. I was wondering if any red notices stuck in your head flagging Moroccan nationals? Nabil is Moroccan, and I thought I’d start there.’

‘There are hundreds, and some with historical connections to Nabil Tradings. I’ll pull up a list,’ Sylvia said.

‘Thanks,’ Helen smiled.

‘So where were you before Paris?’ Sylvia asked.

Helen wanted to get on with her work but she also appreciated that the woman was trying to figure her out and size her up, which was only fair, given that she’d been given a slice of her office space. Helen turned away from her screen and swivelled her chair towards Sylvia. She gave her a precis of her life, and as she did so, felt the familiar tug of surprise and doubt. Her life was punctuated with job