A Place of Hiding

“He was God damn retired. ”


“There’s that, yes. But you see, had the transfers been made by someone we didn’t know quite so well—an in-and-out situation set up by a foreign national, for example—we would have red-flagged it at once. But there was nothing to suggest an irregularity. There’s still nothing to suggest that.” He detached a yellow Post-it from the top of the print-out. He went on to say, “The name on the receiving account is International Access. It has an address in Bracknell. Frankly, I expect it was a start-up company in which Brouard was investing. If you look into it, I’ll wager that’s exactly what you’ll find out.”

“What you’d like us to find out,” Le Gallez said.

“That’s all I know,” Robilliard countered.

Le Gallez didn’t let up. “All you know or all you want to tell us, David?”

To which question, Robilliard slapped his hand on the print-out and said, “See here, Louis. Not a damn thing tells me this is anything other than what it looks like.”

Le Gallez reached for the paper. “Right. We’ll see about that.”

Outside, the three men paused in front of a bakery, where Le Gallez looked longingly at a display of chocolate croissants in the window. DS

Marsh said, “It’s something to look into, sir, but as Brouard’s dead, I wouldn’t bet anyone over in London’s going to break a sweat getting to the bottom of this.”

“It could be a legitimate transaction,” St. James pointed out. “The son—Adrian Brouard—I understand he lives in England. And there’re other children as well. There’s a possibility that one of them owns International Access, and Brouard was doing what he could to prop it up.”

“Investment capital,” DS Marsh said. “We’ll need to get someone in London to deal with the bank over there. I’ll phone FSA and give them the word, but my guess’s at this point, they’re going to want a court order. The bank, that is. If you phone Scotland Yard—”

“I have someone in London,” St. James cut in. “Someone at the Yard. He might be able to help. I’ll ring him. But in the meantime...” He considered all that he’d learned over the past several days. He followed the likely trails that each piece of information had been laying down. “Let me deal with the London end of things, if you will,” he said to Le Gallez. “After that, I’d say it’s time to speak frankly with Adrian Brouard.”





Chapter 23


“So that’s the fact of it, lad,” Paul’s dad said to him. He clasped Paul’s ankle and smiled fondly, but Paul could see the regret in his eyes. He’d seen it even before his father had asked him to come upstairs to his bedroom for

“a bit of a heart-to-heart, Paulie.” The telephone had rung, Ol Fielder had answered it, had said, “Yessir, Mr. Forrest. Boy’s sitting right here,” and had listened long, his face going through a slow alteration from pleasure to concern to veiled disappointment. “Ah well,” he’d said at the conclusion of Dominic Forrest’s comments, “it’s still a good sum, and you won’t see our Paul turning his nose up at it, I can tell you that.”

Afterwards, he’d asked Paul to follow him upstairs, ignoring Billy’s

“Wha’s this about, then? Our Paulie not turning into the next Richard Branson af ’er all?”

They’d gone to Paul’s room, where Paul had sat with his back to the headboard of his bed. His father sat on the edge of it, explaining to him that what Mr. Forrest had previously thought would be an inheritance of some seven hundred thousand pounds had in reality turned out to be an amount in the vicinity of sixty thousand. A good deal less than Mr. Forrest had led them to expect, to be sure, but still a sum not to sniff at. Paul could use it in any number of ways, couldn’t he: technical college, university, travel. He could buy himself a car so he wouldn’t have to rely on that old bike any longer. He could set himself up in a little business if he liked. He might even purchase a cottage somewhere. Not a nice one, true, not even a big one, but one he could work on, fixing it up, making it real sweet over time so when he married someday...Ah well, it was all dreams, wasn’t it?

But dreams were good. We all have them, don’t we?

“Hadn’t got that money all spent in your head, had you, lad?” Ol Fielder asked Paul kindly when he’d concluded his explanation. He gave Paul a pat on the leg. “No? I didn’t think so, son. You’ve got some wisdom about these things. Good it was left to you, Paulie, and not to...Well, you know what I mean.”

“So, tha’s the news, is it? What a bloody good laugh.”