‘What?’
‘It was a fake – the gun – a replica.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I don’t know for certain, except it looked like one. But then you’d know all about that, being an armyofficer’s daughter.’
I sat back, astonished. ‘Oh yes, of course. My devoted colonel daddy ensured I cut my teeth on Walther PPKs, Berettas and the odd treat of a comforting Colt 45.’
‘There you go!’ he countered with spirit. ‘You sound as though you do.’
‘That’s from a youth misspent watching James Bond films.’
He nearly smiled. ‘Okay. Point taken. I didn’t mean to offend you.’
‘For your information, the only thing my father ever taught me about firearms is to treat them with an extremely healthy respect. I couldn’t even tell you if Tom’s gun was a pistol or a revolver. I was too bloody scared.’
He looked chastened. ‘Yes, I was too. I’m sorry, Alix. It was a stupid thing to say. I wasn’t thinking straight.’
‘I can’t think why not.’
We were quiet for a moment. I shivered suddenly. The jumper I was wearing was cotton and it was perishing in the cellar, doubtless good for the health of the wine but not for little me.
‘Here.’ Luc took off his tweed jacket. ‘Put this on. You’re in shock.’
I accepted it; it was too damn cold for gender equality. As the jacket’s heat from Luc’s body warmed me, I realised I wasn’t in shock, unless feeling inclined towards mild hysteria was shock. I was actually feeling quite calm.
‘Do you really think the gun was a replica?’
He sat down on the plastic bench next to me. All we needed was two pints of lager and a packet of crisps to be in a grotty pub garden.
‘I do, if only for the simple albeit prosaic reason that there is no way Tom would have the money to buy a real gun. They cost a packet, even on the black market. He earns very little, and the little he does earn goes down his throat in drink.’
‘An alcoholic chauffeur? Oh, joy.’
‘I know but my father felt sorry for him.’ He looked appealingly at me. ‘Yes, I know what you’re going to say but—’
‘Wait a minute,’ I said, cutting across him because something had just occurred to me. ‘Listen, Tom did have some money – quite a lot in fact.’ I explained my suspicions about the missing three hundred euros.
Luc stared at me, aghast. ‘Why ever didn’t you tell me?’
I looked steadily at him. ‘Partly because I have no proof he stole it but mainly because I was afraid of your reaction. I thought you’d blame me.’
‘Oh, shit.’ He turned his head away, muttering, ‘What a total arsehole I must be.’ Then he swung back to me. ‘I can only apologise again, Alix. It’s entirely my own fault you thought that.’
I drew a deep breath. ‘I don’t think it now,’ I said quietly. ‘I did think it then, but I don’t think it now.’
Our eyes locked for a long moment.
Then, ‘Thank you,’ he said and, standing up, climbed up the cellar steps only to come quickly back down. ‘That door lock is on the other side,’ he said. ‘There’s no way I can get it open from in here. So how the hell are we going to get out?’
‘Tapping morse code on the ceiling? Thoughttransference to the local fire brigade? How about us digging a tunnel?’
He gaped at me. ‘A tunnel? Atunnel! Alix, you are a genius!’ Bouncing across the cellar, Luc started rapidly unloading the bottles of wine stacked on one of the Ikea racks against the opposite wall and placing them in regimented lines on the concrete floor.
‘Ahem.’ Baffled, I cleared my throat. ‘Pardon me, but is this quite the time to be checking your stocks of Mouton Cadet?’
Luc swivelled round, grinning like an eager schoolboy. ‘You’ve cracked it, Alix. I’d forgotten all about it, but what you just said reminded me. There’s a door opening onto a tunnel in the wall behind this rack, in turn leading up into the garden.’
