The appearance of the tall, broad and silent figure in the long black coat created a chill in the air for the three men who’d been guarding the unconscious Gaston Clément. Naudon, Godard and Berger all knew the Inquisitor’s reputation and stayed as far from him as possible, barely daring even to look at him as the man opened up the black bag he was carrying and laid out the shiny assortment of instruments on a trolley. Some of the implements were obviously surgical, like the scalpels and the saw. They could only guess at the grisly purpose of the bolt cutters, claw hammer and blowtorch.
In the centre of the wide empty space, the old alchemist was hanging naked and limp by his feet from a chain wrapped around a girder. The last item Bozza took out of his bag was the heavy plastic overall. He slipped it carefully over his head and smoothed it down over his body. Then he ran a gloved finger along the row of instruments, deciding where to start. His face was blank, impassive. He picked up a long, sharp probe and twirled it between his gloved fingers. He nodded to himself.
Then the whispering questions began, and the screaming.
A little over an hour later, the old man’s screams had died to a constant babbling whimper. There was a spreading pool of blood under him, and Bozza’s plastic overall and the tools on the trolley were thickly smeared with it.
But this had been a waste of time. The old man was sick and frail, and Bozza could see from the bruises and blood-encrusted gashes on his face that his captors had beaten him into uselessness long before he’d even got there. Now his ravaged body had gone into total shock and the torturer knew there was no point in prolonging the agony. There was nothing to learn from him. Bozza walked to the trolley and unzipped a small pouch. The syringe inside contained a massive dose of the same substance vets used to euthanize dogs. He walked back to the hanging body and jabbed the needle into Clement’s neck.
When it was all over, Bozza turned and looked coldly at the three men. Their anxiety at his presence had diminished, and they were standing in a distant corner of the factory, chattering and smoking cigarettes, laughing and joking about something.
He smiled. They wouldn’t be laughing long. What they didn’t know about his visit was that getting information out of Clément wasn’t the only reason Usberti had sent him here. His orders to ‘clean up the mess’ went further. These three amateurs had bungled their jobs once too often. Gladius Domini‘s days of hiring petty crooks to do its dirty work were coming to an end.
He motioned to them to come over. Godard, Naudon and Berger stamped out their cigarettes, shot serious looks at one another and approached. Their good humour had suddenly evaporated, quickly giving way back to nervousness. Naudon was wearing a weak grin, about to say something.
They were ten metres away when Bozza casually drew out a silenced .380 Beretta and dropped them in rapid succession without a word. The bodies slumped quietly to the floor. A spent case tinkled across the concrete. He looked down impassively at the dead men as he unscrewed his silencer and replaced the little pistol in its holster.
Four bodies to dispose of. This time there’d be no traces left.
The van drove away in a haze of dust and diesel smoke. The delivery driver was more than happy with the bulge in his pocket, to the tune of 1,000 Euros, that his odd hitchhikers–the short-tempered American woman and her quiet, pale and sick-looking boyfriend–had given him to go the extra kilometres out of his way as far as the tiny hamlet of Saint-Jean. He wondered what that was all about…but then again, what did he care? The drinks would be on him that night.
Roberta was still picking bits of hay out of her hair after their uncomfortable night in the barn. The farmer whose truck they’d jumped on had never noticed his passengers. After the bumpy ride through the country lanes he’d backed the truck up into the barn and then disappeared. Roberta had sneaked down and hunted around until she’d found a rough old blanket to cover Ben with. He was shivering and in a lot of pain.
She’d spent most of the night sitting watching him and worrying that she should have got him to a hospital. Two farm cats had found them and snuggled up next to her in the deep bed of hay. She’d fallen asleep sometime after three, and it seemed like only minutes had passed before the dawn cries of a rooster had woken them. They’d crept away before the farmer appeared.
It had taken hours to get to Saint-Jean, and the afternoon sun was beginning its downward curve. The village seemed deserted. ‘This place looks like it hasn’t changed much in the last few centuries,’ Roberta said, looking about her.
Ben was slumped against a dry-stone wall, head hanging. He looked pretty bad, she thought anxiously. ‘You wait here. I’ll go see if I can find someone who can help us.’
He nodded weakly. She touched his brow. It was burning, but his hands were cold. The pain from his side was making it hard for him to breathe. She stroked his face. ‘Maybe there’s a doctor in the village,’ she said.
‘Don’t want a doctor,’ he muttered. ‘Get the priest. Get Father Pascal Cambriel.’
For the first time in her life, Roberta found herself praying as she walked through the empty street. The road was bare earth, crumbly from lack of rain. The ancient houses, dirty in a way that would have looked squalid anywhere but the south of France, seemed to lean against each other for support. ‘If you’re up there at all, Lord,’ she said to herself, ‘then please let me find Father Pascal.’ She was suddenly chilled at the thought of being told he was dead, or no longer there. She quickened her step.
The church was at the far end of the village. Beside it was a little graveyard and beyond that a stone cottage. She could hear the cosy sound of hens clucking from the shelter of an outbuilding. A dusty and well-used old Renault 14 was parked outside.
A man walked out from between two houses. He looked like a labourer, his deeply lined face like leather from years of working in the harsh sun. He slowed as he caught sight of her.
‘Monsieur, excuse me,’ she called out to him. He peered at her curiously, quickened his pace and disappeared into one of the houses, slamming the door in her face. Roberta was shocked–and then it dawned on her that a tousled and grimy foreign woman with a bloodstained shirt and ripped jeans might not be a typical sight in these parts. She hurried on, thinking of Ben.
‘Madame? Je peux vous aider? said a voice. Roberta turned and saw an elderly lady, dressed all in black with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. A crucifix hung from a chain around her wrinkled neck.
‘Please, yes, I hope you can help me,’ Roberta answered in French. ‘I’m looking for the village priest.’
The old lady raised her eyebrows. ‘Yes? He is here.’
‘Is Father Pascal Cambriel still the priest of this village?’
‘Yes, he is still here,’ she said, smiling a gap-toothed smile. ‘I am Marie-Claire. I take care of his house.’
‘Will you take me to him, please? It’s important. We need help.’
Marie-Claire led her along to the cottage and they went in. ‘Father,’ she called. ‘We have a visitor.’
The cottage was a humble abode, sparsely furnished yet giving off an air of immense warmth and security. The evening fire was ready for lighting, logs piled on twigs. At a plain pine table were two simple wooden chairs, and at the other end of the room was an old couch covered with a blanket. A large ebony crucifix hung on one whitewashed wall, and there was a picture of the Pope beside an image of the Crucifixion.
There were creaky, uneven footsteps on the stairs, and the priest appeared. Now seventy, Pascal Cambriel was having a little difficulty walking and he leaned heavily on his