The Rift Rachel Lynch (epub e ink reader .txt) 📖

blue Peugeot 206, a larger version of the 205 French classic, and it had entered the city by the A6 and crossed into La Croix-Rousse. It too disappeared into thin air, but they had a trace on the number plate, which led them to an address in La Croix-Rousse, between the rivers, where a team was heading right now.

‘Ready for the show?’ Sylvia reappeared with coffee and referred to the planned raid that was now displayed on Helen’s screen, courtesy of body-cam technology, and Helen felt a frisson of excitement. Sylvia handed her a steaming mug and Helen thanked her and sat back in her chair to watch.

This kind of technology was something that was a joy to work with. She’d been attached to countless police departments across the globe and knew first hand that an organisation’s ability to achieve results was based purely on funding, and Interpol had plenty.

They watched via body cam as a team of French gendarmes approached a garage, deep in the heart of the ancient passages that criss-crossed over the modern roads, cutting the district in two. Helen tapped a pen against her teeth and Sylvia drew up her chair.

The team parked underneath a balcony, and two men guarded their escape route, should they run into trouble. Helen knew Le Croix-Rousse well. It was a popular tourist destination, but for anyone in authority, it was a detested maze. They were hemmed in by flats, shops, bars and parked cars, and their line of sight was minimal. The radio crackled and Helen’s nerves jangled. She wished she could be there, and her foot tapped in time with her pen. They watched the screen. Their brief was to raid the address, looking for anyone inside to apprehend and arrest under suspicion of being involved in the abduction of Hakim.

The garage was broken in to first and they heard the splinter of wood as the doors were bashed in. The footage showed a Peugeot 206 parked inside, and Sylvia banged the desk. It was a significant find, and Helen ordered it to be impounded and taken to a secure location for a full forensic test. The residential part of the building was accessed by a small wooden door on a first-floor walkway, with no rear entry point. The roof was accessible, so one man was stationed up there. Another two took the door. It went unanswered, and the order came over the radio to enter.

Helen and Sylvia watched closely. These were the times that Helen wished she was still operational on the ground. There was nothing like the adrenalin hit of pounding a door in, not knowing what was on the other side.

‘You want to be there yourself, don’t you?’ Sylvia noted. Helen nodded.

‘It’s driving me nuts, I haven’t got used to sitting behind a desk yet,’ she replied.

‘Don’t worry, it’s early days, you’ll get out there when it counts,’ Sylvia said.

Helen turned to her. ‘I hope you’re right,’ she said, appreciative of the fact that some missing people were never found, and that was the case all over the world, no matter your background.

‘Come on, get in there,’ Helen said out loud. They watched as, on cue, they bashed in the flimsy wood and entered the small apartment. Helen screwed her face up as she concentrated on each of the bodycam images being sent live back to them in the office. She searched round the rooms as if she were there herself. Reports came back from each officer as rooms were cleared.

There was no one home, but what they did find was plenty of detritus to suggest recent human occupancy, like scrunched up sheets, cups and saucers, a sink full of water and a wet towel. Helen sat back.

‘Alright, not what we wanted but it’s a start. Seal the building,’ she ordered. They’d wait for a forensic team to get down there and bag and tag evidence to be analysed in a lab across the city. Meanwhile, a foot search by the gendarmes would take place among the neighbouring residents to see if anyone knew who lived there.

Helen watched as an old lady came out of her balcony door and began to scold the team in very loud and colourful French, strewn with expletives a fisherwoman on the banks of the Saône would be proud of. However, when they explained who they were and what information they were looking for, she became demur, helpful and almost flirtatious.

‘Jesus, she’s a firecracker,’ said Sylvia. The old woman had knowledge of who stayed in the flat, and she made no mistake about telling of her distaste for them.

‘Their drugs smelled,’ she said. She agreed to be accompanied to a police station for an interview and she smiled as they said they’d get her a coffee and make sure she was looked after. Her gums were gappy but her eyes sparkled with mischief. She told them that she had plenty to tell about the two young men who occupied the flat.

‘They moved in two weeks ago, caused chaos with my cats and then disappeared just like that.’

‘They left their car,’ the body-cam officer said. The woman could be seen peering over the officer’s shoulder into the garage.

‘They had a van too,’ she said. The officer took the details.

‘Can you describe the men?’

‘Of course! They were both ugly with bad manners.’

‘We can start with that.’

But it was what the old lady added to her story that caught the attention of Helen and Sylvia, listening from their air-conditioned office at Interpol.

‘Les Beurs.’

Helen had heard the term hundreds of times before. It was the standard derogatory French saying for second-generation immigrants from North Africa.

Chapter 16

Grant sat in a ten-year-old Renault, bought in cash, on the corner of an intersection joining two tiny Parisian streets busy with gossip and coffee drinkers. Cigarette smoke lingered on the air. He watched an internet cafe and took photos of people coming and going. He had a photograph on his front passenger seat and waited for one face