Dead Line by Chris Ewan

vapour lights all around his home. So tell me who might want to abduct him. And why.’
    Stephanie blinked very fast. She seemed unaware that she was shaking her head.
    Philippe grinned inanely, as if Trent were a fool.
    Alain scowled and rubbed his palm across his close-cropped hair. His head was tilted over to one side. He met Trent’s gaze with a baleful look.
    ‘None of you?’ Trent persisted.
    Alain’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why do you ask?’
    ‘Because it could help us. I’m trying to form an idea of who we might be up against here.’
    ‘But you told us an investigation could endanger M. Moreau. You said we have to negotiate. This is all.’
    ‘I’m not suggesting that the information leaves this room,’ Trent told him. ‘I’m not suggesting we try to find the gang.’
    He wasn’t suggesting it, but he was thinking it. He wanted to know almost more than he could stand.
    If Aimée were here, listening to him now, she’d be giving him one of her knowing looks, the kind where she pushed her mouth to one side and arched an eyebrow. She always delighted in reminding him that he was hopeless at leaving anything unresolved. He couldn’t walk away from a minor disagreement or a half-finished crossword puzzle. He hated any kind of logic flaw in a movie. So she’d know that this entire situation was killing him, and for a precious second, recognising that made him feel as if she were near.
    ‘No, you advise us when these men call,’ Alain told him. ‘This is all you do. You don’t ask questions about M. Moreau’s business. You don’t intrude on his life.’
    ‘I’m trying to save his life.’
    And in that moment, the weight and the absurdity of what he was saying suddenly hit Trent like he’d stepped in front of a freight train. He shook his head. Scrubbed his face with his hands. He needed a break. Needed space to think. And if the others planned to stay inside the study, then maybe this was his opportunity to take a look around the house. He wasn’t sure what he might find. But even the slimmest chance was better than nothing.
    ‘I’d like a glass of water.’ He nodded at Stephanie. ‘Maybe something to eat. Which way is your kitchen?’
    ‘No.’ Alain pushed up from the floor. He readjusted the fit of his holster and his gun. ‘You don’t go alone. I’ll show you.’

Chapter Twelve
    The kitchen was located at the rear of the property. Alain led Trent towards it via the entrance hall and a door that was set into the wall behind the sweeping staircase and the prancing horse statuettes. It was vast and impressive. The units looked to be handmade and they were fitted with white granite countertops that were conspicuously empty aside from a gleaming toaster and a designer kettle. There was a range cooker, an American-style fridge-freezer and numerous pans hanging on racks from the ceiling. Everything looked well ordered and spotlessly clean.
    The only food Trent could see was a bowl of fruit on an island unit in the middle of the room. A stainless-steel sink was located there, along with a stylish tap fitted to an extendable hose.
    Alain crossed towards a glass-fronted cupboard, his shoes squeaking on the white marble tiles. He selected a tall drinking glass and passed it to Trent.
    Trent filled the glass from the tap. He drank greedily. Wiped his lips with the back of his hand when he was done.
    He filled the glass a second time. Drained it. Poured a third.
    ‘What about food?’ he asked, smacking his lips.
    ‘What about it?’
    ‘Is there anything we could maybe heat up?’
    ‘Do I look like a chef to you?’
    Alain stretched out his thickened neck, tilting his boulder-like head from side to side. He ran his finger around the back of his collar. Then he wet his hand from the tap and smeared water across his face.
    Trent motioned towards the fridge-freezer. ‘Maybe I could take a look for myself?’
    ‘Maybe you couldn’t.’
    Alain stood before him, water dripping from his flattened nose