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

The flat where the man called Fudail had been arrested this morning had been searched, but there was no sign of Hakim. The fact that he’d looked into the body cam of a gendarme and said ‘beyra’ haunted Helen. Was it mere coincidence that she was a woman and unmarried? But she came back to the fact that the man had looked into the body-cam lens while being apprehended by a man. There were plenty of insults he could have hurled against the male gender, but he hadn’t.

Or was she simply paranoid? They were closing in on suspects and her mind whirred. She tried to concentrate on her phone call to the forensic officer at the scene of the flat where the same man had been arrested.

‘What exactly was searched?’ Helen asked him. ‘Bath panels? Loft spaces, floorboards? Cupboards? Have we sent in dogs or carbon-dioxide sensors?’ She fired questions off, partly to escape the thoughts of Hakim, and what shape he might be in after a week of captivity. If, indeed, he was still alive. It was a sweltering day and the forensic officer was no doubt kitted from head to toe in plastic. Helen knew it was a shitty job, but she needed answers. She grabbed her bag and headed out of the door.

‘The two men are in custody,’ Sylvia told her. The other had finally given his name as Nizam; Fudail’s accomplice.

‘He knows something – I’m convinced Hakim is in that flat or somewhere nearby. I’m going over to Le Croix-Rousse to work with the forensic team. Keep in touch,’ Helen said.

Sylvia nodded. ‘I’m going to interview that one first,’ she said, pointing at the still copied from the body cam of the man calling himself Fudail. ‘He’s not on any of our databases, by name, but he’ll have DNA and fingerprints extracted as soon as he’s booked in,’ Sheila said. ‘Good work with the young man earlier – the transcript was genius to read,’ Sheila added.

‘Thank you,’ Helen said. She didn’t hang around for compliments and left, charging an Interpol driver to shoot her across town.

The journey was frustrating but she knew that she needed to be close to where she believed Hakim had been, and perhaps – if they were lucky – still was. The door-to-door was still ongoing in Le Croix-Rousse, taking longer than normal because of the alleyways and hidden corners of les traboules, but the Police Nationale was admirably diligent, and updates pinged up on their inquiry noticeboard as more and more residents were accounted for. She peered at her iPad in the back of the car and fiddled with her clothing. Her shirt felt uncomfortable and her hair hot. She tied it back and checked her mascara in a tiny mirror she pulled from her bag. Smudged make-up wasn’t a great look, but it was sometimes a hazard of the job. She was thrilled when she’d found a super-waterproof brand in Paris, and it seemed to be holding up so far. Her phone rang and her cheeks flushed when she saw it was Grant. She answered the call.

‘I’ve got Khalil on board, and I’ve gathered everything you wanted. He’s had another phone call. You know I said Fawaz alluded to a woman he wanted released?’

‘Yes,’ Helen replied.

‘He confirmed to Khalil that it’s Madame Bisset. He said if she wasn’t released into his custody this afternoon, Hakim will die. It’s our last chance. Khalil is on the verge of breaking – we haven’t got much time,’ he added.

This was their first solid lead linking Fawaz to the abduction, Jean-Luc and to Europe. It solidified her position and gave her the conviction she needed to proceed.

‘Grant?’

‘Yes?’

‘Has Khalil at any point told Fawaz that a woman is in charge of the Interpol inquiry into Hakim’s disappearance?’

‘I don’t know, why?’

‘Oh, nothing.’

She hung up and communicated the information to Peter, who informed her that he’d contacted Sir Conrad to update him. He was awaiting his flight at the airport.

‘I think it’s safe to say your line manager is in shit alley,’ he said. Helen couldn’t help but smile at the thought of Ben Palmer crawling out of this one.

They hung up and, as if on cue, her mobile rang again and it was Sir Conrad himself. Not his secretary or military attaché lackey, no. Now he wanted to speak. Well, he could fuck right off. She ignored it and instead called Grant back.

‘I’m heading to les traboules, if you happen to be over that way,’ she said.

Grant laughed gently.

‘You’re already on your way there?’ she said.

‘I can’t sit and do nothing, and we know that if he’s anywhere, it’s in that neighbourhood. When’s your ETA?’

‘Three minutes.’

They hung up. She got the car to drive her up the hill and stop next to the building that was being searched and showed her ID tag. The street was quiet, as many people were abiding by the wishes of the gendarmerie and staying indoors. It didn’t stop people peering over balconies and from behind shutters, but that was fine. She spotted Grant and met him on a stairwell overhanging with bougainvillea. The deep purple flowers reminded her of Cyprus, which is where her body had laboured to bring Luke into the world. The hospital at RAF Akrotiri had provided excellent care, talking her through every step of her spontaneous abortion. She hated the term, but that’s exactly what it was: her body was giving birth because her child was dying.

Nature is so clever, she’d mused at the time, as if in some manically warped daze. It was her mental protection mechanism, she knew now: it prevented utter overload of pain, grief and bereavement.

Her senses returned to the stone wall, painted yellow, hot in the sun, and the man smiling at her.

‘You look as though you never drove through the night and have had zero sleep,’ she said.

‘You know I’m not the best sleeper,’ he replied. It was true, she never knew him go more than five hours in one