Dead Line by Chris Ewan Page A

and dimpled chin onto his stained shirt. He looked haggard and knocked about. The water had moistened the thread of blood beneath his plaster and a diluted red streak was snaking across his cheek.
    Trent reached out and grabbed an apple from the bowl. Squeezed it in his hand. He bit into it. Chewed. The skin was waxy, the flesh ripe and sweet and juicy.
    ‘You’re still suspicious,’ Trent said, a spray of apple accompanying his words.
    ‘It’s my job to be suspicious.’
    Trent took another mouthful of apple. ‘And what else does your job involve?’
    The bodyguard didn’t respond. Water gleamed on his face. The faint bloody track was forking its way through the pitted stubble on his cheek towards the corner of his mouth.
    ‘It just occurs to me,’ Trent said, ‘that you must have some level of involvement in Jérôme’s import–export business. Helping to make sure the shipments get in safely, maybe?’
    Alain raised his arm and dried himself with the sleeve of his shirt. Trent could hear the scritch of his stubble against the cotton fabric.
    ‘Philippe exaggerates. You shouldn’t listen to him.’
    ‘Hard not to.’ Trent gestured around him with the hand holding the apple. ‘He seems like the only one who’s willing to open up to me.’
    ‘I thought you were a negotiator, not a therapist.’
    Trent tore off another chunk of apple and looked idly round the rest of the kitchen. It really was immaculate. The only sign of any crumbs or spills was a light dusting of coffee grounds near the kettle. Alain must have scattered them when he was preparing the coffee for Philippe. Otherwise, the room was as sterile as an operating theatre.
    ‘So who does the cooking here?’ he asked.
    ‘There’s a housekeeper.’
    ‘Huh. And can she be trusted not to talk about what’s going on? Or do we need to come up with an explanation for Jérôme’s absence? A sudden business trip, maybe?’
    Alain folded his arms across his chest, the Ruger riding up in his shoulder holster. He pinched his biceps with the fingers of his crossed hands. His eyes were hooded. A sign of fatigue or distrust? Maybe a combination of the two.
    ‘Not necessary,’ he said.
    ‘Why so sure?’
    ‘She’s worked for M. Moreau longer than anyone I know. She could have retired years ago but she prefers not to. She’s completely reliable.’
    ‘All staff gossip sometimes.’
    ‘She’s more like family than staff. And she has nobody to talk with. She lives here.’
    ‘Here? In the house?’
    He motioned back towards the entrance hall with a jerk of his head. ‘She has a small place behind the garage.’
    ‘Does she have a phone? She might call somebody.’
    ‘No phone.’
    ‘You’re sure.’
    He nodded. He was sure.
    ‘Doesn’t she have to go out for supplies?’ Trent asked.
    ‘We have deliveries.’
    ‘What if she needs something extra? Something unexpected?’
    ‘This never happens.’
    ‘But if it did?’
    ‘I would take her. She can’t drive.’
    ‘You’d take her? Not Jérôme’s chauffeur?’
    Alain raised an eyebrow. His face framed a question.
    ‘It’s like I told you,’ Trent said. ‘I’ve been watching Jérôme. I’ve seen the guy who usually does the driving.’
    ‘For your surveillance,’ Alain said. His voice was low. It was measured. ‘For Jérôme’s protection.’
    ‘That’s right. Tell me about him.’
    The muscles around Alain’s mouth twitched. His lip hitched up and Trent caught a glimpse of his canine tooth. ‘He doesn’t have a phone, either.’
    ‘He lives here, too?’
    ‘By the pool.’
    ‘And you?’
    ‘I have a room in the house.’
    ‘Seniority.’ Trent nodded. ‘Good for you. Must be cosy having Stephanie around. When Jérôme’s busy, say.’
    Alain squeezed his biceps some more. ‘I told you already. You shouldn’t listen to Philippe.’
    Trent stuffed the apple in his mouth and clenched it between his teeth. He made a show of checking his watch. It was 3.20 a.m. He