Tangled web, p.29
Tangled Web, page 29
Gordon and Mary sat in nervous silence while Mrs Roberts checked lists and made several calls on the internal phone network, all apparently without success. They were becoming depressed when a more positive sounding conversation seemed to be taking place. ‘You were on the desk on Tuesday evening, weren’t you, Lisa? Good … the Paris flight, that’s right … Do you happen to remember a family named, Trool boarding the aircraft? … You do? Excellent! Could you come upstairs when your current boarding’s finished?’
Mrs Roberts smiled and said, ‘Lisa remembers them. She’ll be up as soon as they’ve finished boarding the Zurich flight.’
A fresh-faced, blonde girl appeared some ten minutes later, carrying a clipboard under one arm and a bag slung over her other shoulder. Mrs Roberts did the introductions and added, ‘These two people are doctors, Lisa. They’re trying to trace the Trool family. I understand it’s quite important.’
‘I’m not sure I can help really,’ said Lisa diffidently. ‘I remember them because I got their name wrong and called them, “Troll”. We made some jokes about Norwegian fairy folk and had a bit of a laugh, but that’s about it.’
‘Who was carrying the child?’ asked Gordon.
‘Mrs Trool was,’ replied Lisa.
‘Were her eyes bandaged?’
Lisa looked at Gordon as if it were a daft question. ‘No,’ she replied, sounding puzzled. ‘They weren’t.’
Gordon let out a sigh of relief and smiled at Mary. ‘They couldn’t have done it yet,’ he said. He turned back to Lisa and said, ‘But you did notice that their daughter was blind?’
‘No,’ replied Lisa, sounding even more puzzled.
‘Did she say anything to you about where she was going?’
‘Their daughter? Of course not. She couldn’t have been any more than three or four months old,’ exclaimed Lisa.
‘But Charlotte Trool is three or four years old!’ said Gordon. He looked at Mary and asked, ‘What on earth is going on?’
‘The child couldn’t have been their daughter. That’s the only explanation.’
Gordon turned to Lisa again and asked, ‘Can you tell us anything else about the baby?’
‘Not really. She giggled when I tickled her tummy. I remember thinking she was a little short in the body but I’m not sure why I’m saying that.’
Mary suddenly paled and said, ‘It was because she had no legs.’
Gordon’s nodded. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘It was Anne-Marie they were taking out of the country!’
‘I’m sorry, you’ve rather lost me,’ said Mrs Roberts.
Gordon ignored her. He made a pyramid with his two hands and tapped his fingertips rapidly against his chin while he thought through the implications. ‘So where’s their daughter?’ he murmured.
‘The neighbour said she went into a clinic,’ Mary reminded him.
‘But not here!’ exclaimed Gordon. He turned to Mrs Roberts and said, ‘Could you check to see if Mrs Trool made another trip to Paris a few days ago with her daughter?’
‘I suppose … ’
‘Please. I promise you - it’s very important.’
Mrs Roberts turned to her computer screen and started her search. Gordon turned to Mary and said, ‘They’ve gone to Paris to have the operation done there - I’m sure of it.’
‘But we still don’t know where!’ whispered Mary. ‘Maybe you should get in touch with Inspector Davies and tell him that Anne-Marie is still alive. It might make a difference if he can tell the French police that.’
Gordon nodded his agreement.
Mrs Roberts announced, ‘Yes, here it is, five days ago. She travelled to Paris with her daughter, but without her husband on that occasion.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Roberts, and you too, Lisa. You’ve been most helpful.’
Gordon and Mary left the office and returned to the main concourse. ‘I should have realised earlier that there was no way that the operation could have been carried out in such a short space of time. Davies’s idea of recuperation in France was really a non-starter. The Trools just came up with a clever way of getting Anne-Marie out the country; they pretended she was their daughter.’
‘They seem to have thought of everything,’ said Mary.
‘God, I wish I knew where they’d gone,’ exclaimed Gordon.
‘The sooner you phone Davies the better. Make sure the French police are checking the Paris hospitals and clinics,’ said Mary.
‘Clinics!’ exclaimed Gordon. ‘Dawes’s clinic!’
‘You’re not making any sense,’ said Mary, now having to watch Gordon search through all his pockets as if he were on fire
‘When I was at the house in Aberlyn,’ said Gordon, ‘I found a leaflet about a French clinic. It was being used as a bookmark. I didn’t think too much about it at the time but now I see, it has to be the place. Anything else would just be too much of a coincidence.’
Gordon found what he was looking for and unfolded it. ‘See!’ he said, showing it to Mary.
‘Phone Davies and tell him right now!’ said Mary.
Gordon made the call on his mobile phone after finding a quiet corner behind a row of cleaning trolleys. Mary waited nearby. ‘Did you get him all right?’ she asked when he rejoined her.
Gordon said that he had. ‘He’s going to contact the French police right away.’
‘Good,’ said Mary, her shoulders sagging in relief. ‘I only hope they get there on time to stop it. Meanwhile, I suppose we’re back to playing the waiting game.’
‘Wait?’ echoed Gordon. ‘Us? Oh no. We’re off to Paris.’
TWENTY NINE
‘You’re not serious,’ exclaimed Mary, although more in hope than expectation.
‘We can do more good there than we can here,’ insisted Gordon. ‘Here, we’re just waiting around.
‘But surely the French police will … ’
‘Think about it! The French police can’t possibly have a real understanding of what’s going on, just on the basis of a couple of phone calls from the North Wales Constabulary. It would be much better if they actually had someone there on the ground to answer questions and give advice.’
Mary took a moment to consider Gordon’s claim then she came up with a valid objection. ‘We don’t have passports with us,’ she said.
‘Shit!’ exclaimed Gordon, bringing the heel of his hand to his forehead. He stood there like a statue for a few moments before he took hold of Mary’s arm and started leading her through the crowds.
Mary’s puzzled protests were lost as Gordon led her towards the airport shops to start scanning the shelves of a book and souvenir stall anxiously. He found what he was looking for and pointed them out to Mary. She was looking at leather passport covers. They looked like the old style of British passport, issued before the EEC ones took over.
‘We could chance it with these,’ said Gordon. ‘Passport control between European countries is notoriously lax.’
Mary hesitated and Gordon said, ‘I really think there’s a good chance she’s still alive.’
Mary gave in and shook her head, saying, ‘All right, what the hell, in for a penny … ’
Gordon bought the covers and slipped them into his inside pocket then they came out and started looking for information on the Departures screen. An Air France flight was scheduled to leave for Paris in forty-five minutes. Another struggle through the crowds and Gordon was attempting to persuade the staff at the Air France counter to let them fly on it. ‘I know, I know,’ he countered their objections with raised palms and smiles, ‘I understand, but it really is vitally important that we get to Paris a s quickly as possible. ‘Please make an exception … just this once?’
Finally the two staff members smiled and gave in. Gordon paid for the tickets with his credit card and accepted the two boarding cards.
‘You must go straight to the gate.’
‘Of course,’ said Gordon.
As they headed for the International Departure hall, Gordon turned to Mary and said, ‘Now for the big test, are you okay?’
‘I feel sick,’ Mary replied.
They could see the passport control desk up ahead. Gordon said, ‘Keep talking. Say anything you like but keep talking.’
Mary started to chatter, using a series of medical statistics as her chosen subject. The nearer they got to the desk the faster she seemed to speak. They were almost on it when Gordon, still looking at Mary as if totally wrapped up in what she was saying, took out the two covers from his inside pocket and waved them in the general direction of the desk while interrupting Mary. ‘No, no, no,’ he exclaimed, without breaking stride. ‘You simply can’t start that kind of patient on chemotherapy at that point. It’s much better to wait until …’
At no time did either of them look directly at the man on the desk. They walked straight past, both fearing a call to halt but it never came. Ever so gradually, relief replaced fear.
‘I’d better sit down before I fall down,’ whispered Mary. ‘I’m not cut out for this kind of thing.’
‘To be perfectly honest, neither am I,’ confessed Gordon. ‘I hated every second of it.’
Mary looked at him sideways and smiled, ‘You were brilliant, you should change your name to Bond.’
‘Be a change from, Mud,’ he said wryly and she laughed.
The flight was only three minutes late in taking off. Gordon and Mary lapsed into silence and communed with their own thoughts until the aircraft reached cruising height and the flight attendants started a round with the drinks trolley.
‘This is where we have to decide whether we should have a drink or keep our reflexes perfectly honed,’ said Gordon, tongue in cheek.
Mary gave him a look that sufficed as a reply.
‘Two gin and tonics please.’
Mary let out a long sigh of appreciation. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever needed a drink so much in all my life,’ she said, putting her head back on the rest.
‘I’ll drink to that,’ agreed Gordon.
They both sat with their eyes closed for a few minutes, relaxing and savouring the calming effect of the alcohol before Gordon took out the French clinic’s blurb and started to read it. The St Pierre boasted the finest facilities currently available for the discerning client and was equipped for procedures varying from minor to major surgery, it claimed. Prospective patients could avail themselves of the in-house medical teams or appoint their own physicians and surgeons as they saw fit.
‘Do you know Paris?’ asked Mary.
‘Not well. You?’
‘Hardly at all.’
‘There’s a little map on the back,’ said Gordon. ‘This place is in the Rue de Bagneux in Montrouge, just outside the Périphérique ring road on the south side.’
Mary took a look at the map and added, ‘It says that you take the exit at Porte de Orléans. ‘But how do we get there?’
‘Do you have your driving license with you?’
Mary shook her head.
‘Me neither,’ said Gordon. ‘So renting a car is out. Let’s get whatever seems fastest into Paris – bus, train, taxi, you name it - and then play it by ear.’
‘Assuming we get into the country in the first place,’ Mary reminded him. ‘There’s the time factor to consider too,’ she said, looking at her watch. ‘It’s going to be the evening rush hour if and when we do get there.’
‘All we need,’ Gordon sighed.
The flight landed at Charles De Gaulle airport with a large bump due to a crosswind catching the aircraft at the last moment in its approach. Many of the passengers started to talk about it but Mary and Gordon didn’t say a word: they were too focused on other things.
‘I wonder what French jails are like,’ whispered Mary.
Gordon squeezed her hand and tried to assure her that it wouldn’t come to that. He said that they should attempt to go through passport control with the biggest group of people they could find. This meant being neither the first to get off the plane nor the last. Fortunately, they had very little in the way of hand baggage to deal with and no luggage to collect from the carousel at all, so they could afford to be flexible in their timing.
As soon as he saw the Passport Control booths, Gordon knew that everything was going to be all right. The bored-looking officials were just waving people on through with a lazy wave of the hand as passengers held up their passports to them. Gordon held up the two covers, pretending to struggle to open them up as they passed, and suddenly they were into France.
There was a tourist information desk directly opposite as they emerged through customs, again unchallenged. As there was no queue at it, Gordon took the opportunity to ask the quickest way into Paris. The man pointed through the glass doors to the side of his desk and said, ‘There’s an express bus leaving in three minutes,’ he said. ‘It will save you waiting for anything else.’
Gordon took Mary’s hand and they rushed over to the Bureau de Change to change a handful of money before running out through the doors and reaching the steps of the bus just as the doors closed with a hydraulic hiss. To their relief, the driver saw then and opened them up again. They climbed aboard, thanking him, and sat down one row behind him on the other side as the bus moved off.
‘That was a bit of luck,’ said Mary.
‘Something tells me we’re going to need a whole lot more,’ said Gordon, but she was right. Presumably a taxi or train might have been faster had all things been equal but they hadn’t, and there was no telling how long they would have had to wait for either of these other options.
‘How’s your French?’ Gordon asked.
‘Quite good,’ replied Mary.
‘Good enough to ask the driver the quickest way to Montrouge at this time of day?’ he asked.
‘Piece of găteau,‘ Mary joked and, still sitting in her seat, she leaned forward and said across the aisle, ‘Monsieur?’
Gordon was impressed as Mary held a fluent conversation with the man, ending in smiles and thanks. ‘Thank God you came,’ he whispered.
Mary said, ‘He reckons the Metro would be quickest at this time of day without a doubt. He told me which line we want and the nearest station to where the bus stops. More than that, he used to be a cab driver; he told me how we get to Rue De Bagneux from our station.’
‘What a star,’ said Gordon.
As they left the bus at Gare de L’Est and stepped out on to the pavement into the darkness of early evening in Paris, Gordon looked about him and found what he was looking for. ‘There!’ he said, pointing to the steps with the Paris Metro sign above them. They hurried down them with Gordon saying, ‘It’s a smell you don’t forget.’
‘Like no other,’ agreed Mary.
They had to queue at the ticket booth but not for long. Most passengers seemed to have season tickets. ‘Where do we want to go?’ asked Gordon.
‘Porte D’Orléans.’
The train was crowded so they had to stand. By the time the train had cleared Montparnasse Bievenue, there were seats to be had. After Denfert Rochereau, it was more than half-empty. ‘Two more stations and then it’s ours,’ said Mary. ‘Port D’Orléans - the end of the line.’
The train emptied and Gordon and Mary made their way to the station exit, pausing there, as fellow passengers dispersed, to look for street signs in order to get their bearings. Gordon examined his small map. Mary said, ‘This should be Boulevard Brun, according to the bus driver.’
‘It is and we should cross it.’
They took the pedestrian underpass and surfaced on the other side of the Boulevard Brun, happy to be going under the heavy rush-hour traffic instead of having to dodge through it.
Mary pointed to a sign on the wall of a building to their right. It said, Rue De Bagneaux.
The clinic itself was three blocks down the Rue De Bagneaux, standing on the corner at a road junction and overlooking a cemetery. Neither of them commented on the fact; both were too nervous.
The door to the clinic was locked. In fact, the only outward sign that the building might be either a hospital or clinic was an ambulance standing outside. There was an entryphone mounted on the wall. Gordon pressed the button and waited.
‘Oui?’
Gordon looked at Mary, took a deep breath then said firmly who they were, adding, ‘We’ve just arrived from the UK and we need to speak to someone urgently about one of your patients, a child named Trool.’
‘Un moment.’
‘Gordon made a face as they waited for a reply.
‘You were fine,’ said Mary encouragingly. ‘The police will have been here by now, so the clinic staff will know that something is amiss with the Trool child.’
The door lock clicked open and they were admitted to a short, brightly lit hall leading to a flight of marble stairs. The air inside was warm and there was a smell of antiseptic. A woman dressed in a smart lilac suit and white blouse met them at the head of the stairs; she introduced herself as Antoinette Bressard, Administrative Assistant at the clinic. ‘I will take you to see Dr Balard,’ she said.
Mary asked her if Balard was the director.
‘Deputy Director,’ the woman replied. ‘The director has gone home for the evening.’
They were shown into an elegant office where a well-dressed man in his mid-thirties rose to meet them and invited them to sit.
‘I believe the French police have already been here to ask about the patient we are interested in,’ said Gordon.
Balard nodded. ‘They were here about three hours ago, looking for the Trool baby’s parents. I understand the couple are wanted by the British police for questioning.’
‘The Trools’ daughter is here?’ asked Gordon.
‘Yes indeed. She is due to be operated on the day after tomorrow.’
Gordon exchanged a relieved look with Mary then said to Balard, ‘A transplant operation?’
‘Eye tissue - a delicate procedure.’
‘How much do you know about the donor, Doctor?’ asked Gordon.
Balard shrugged. ‘Nothing at all - the operation has been arranged privately. Our clients have contracted for our theatre facilities and nursing services but they have made their own arrangements for surgical and medical staff.’
