CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT.

By 3 a.m. with just eight and a half hours to go before her deadline they had it all except for what they wanted most, a location for where Felicite Galan held Mary Beth McBride.

The search of Pieter Lascelles' Eindhoven home, authorized by the Dutch Justice Minister on suspicion of serious crime, produced a substantial amount of paedophile p.o.r.nography but no clue to Felicite's whereabouts. Or his. Her dark green Mercedes was discovered garaged at the riverside house but Lascelles' Jaguar was missing from his home. The registration-linked Dutch national police computer provided the number as well as the make, which was circulated with stop-and-detain orders to all road traffic units in Holland and Belgium.

Confronted in Brussels with the proof that Mary Beth had been in the Antwerp house, Felicite Galan's paedophile group collapsed into recriminating accusations against her, with the exception of the still deeply sedated Charles Mehre, and any confession he might have made became unnecessary, so full were the frantic admissions of the other five desperate to shift guilt and blame away from themselves.

So desperate were they Jean Smet seemingly most of all that Claudine became convinced within an hour of the interrogations' resuming at the Belgian police headquarters that one if not all would have disclosed an address if they'd known one. Which meant that the lead had to come from them subconsciously. And that she had to recognize it when it did.

It was the once devoted Gaston Mehre who rushed to name his r.e.t.a.r.ded brother as the killer of the Dilbeek victim as well as the previous rent boy, even before being faced with the preliminary forensic comparison matching of what had been found on the decomposing body and the hessian: glue, specialized antique polish and dirt recovered from the bas.e.m.e.nt storeroom of his Schoenmarkt antique gallery in which, additionally, had been found blood from which a DNA comparison was already being made.

Jean Smet eagerly volunteered his misdirecting part as the Justice Ministry liaison during that earlier murder investigation, which surprised Claudine until she accepted that he was virtually setting out his defence to foreseeable criminal charges, acknowledging paedophilia in a country of minimal child-s.e.x sentencing but denying any part in murder. 'I certainly obstructed justice. But I had nothing to do with that killing. Nor this one. Neither was I in any way involved with the kidnap of the amba.s.sador's daughter. It was Felicite. Felicite and Henri Cool. From the first day I argued for her to be safely returned.'

Before they'd left Antwerp, Sanglier had drafted a new Europol squad into Eindhoven and Rampling was only thirty minutes behind Claudine returning to Brussels, enabling them to resume their questioning of the ministry lawyer together.

They were briefly hopeful despite his insistence that Felicite and the child wouldn't be there when Smet explained how the groups had protected themselves by not owning secondary property in their country of residence and revealed Felicite's ownership of a country villa in Goirle. It was locked and shuttered when Europol and Eindhoven police raided it minutes after being alerted.

'How did you know she wouldn't be there?' demanded Rampling.

'She's planning a special party. Bigger than anything she's ever organized before. Goirle is too small.'

'Is that what Mary Beth was s.n.a.t.c.hed for, a special party?' asked Claudine. Her concentration was absolute, searching for the smallest tell-tale sign.

Smet nodded, not replying.

'Is that where she's gone with Lascelles, to wherever it's being held?' asked the American.

'I'd expect so.'

'Don't you know?' said the disbelieving Rampling.

'No.'

'You're part of her group. Why aren't you and the others included?'

'I don't know about the others. I told her I wasn't interested. Like I said, I'm not involved.'

A defensive lie, judged Claudine: the disagreement between them had been as serious as she'd guessed. Could that help her? Maybe, if she knew the proper questions. But she didn't. 'Who is going?'

The lean-faced man shrugged. 'Lascelles' group, I suppose. I don't know how many. And some French, I think.'

'Who are the French group?' pounced Rampling.

'I don't know.'

'Why not?'

'That's the way the system worked. Only the people who organize the gatherings know each other. It's safer, in case anyone gets arrested. They can't talk about people they don't know.'

'How come you know about Lascelles?' persisted the American.

'Because of the Antwerp house. I held the spare key.'

'Is it Lascelles' group who s.n.a.t.c.hed two children in Eindhoven yesterday?' There must be something, somewhere!

'I don't know anything about what happened in Eindhoven.'

'Who are the people in Lascelles' group?'

'I don't know any of them.'

'You've had "parties" with them before, haven't you?'

'We don't use names. Usually we wear masks.'

It wasn't coming, thought Claudine: nothing was coming that she could follow. 'So you film what happens?'

Smet shifted uncomfortably. 'Sometimes.'

'Will this special party be filmed?'

'I told you I don't know anything about this special party.'

'What happens to the films?'

'They're kept.'

'Have you got any, apart from the two in your safe?'

'How do you know what I've got in my safe?'

'We opened it,' said Rampling impatiently. 'Answer the question.'

'No, I haven't got any.'

'Do you know anyone who has?'

'No.'

'Who takes the films?'

'Someone who has a camera. I never did.'

'How far in advance are these parties planned?' said Claudine. If something didn't become obvious soon she'd check the transcripts of the other resumed interviews, seeking her lead there. She tried to push away the frustration, aware it could cloud her judgement.

'This one took a long time. Months. She wanted it to be better than any before it.'

In a sharp, outside-herself moment Claudine was distracted by the awareness that they were talking in ordinary, low-voiced conversational tones no one visibly angry, no one visibly offended, no one visibly judgemental about other adults conspiring s.e.xually, perhaps in other ways too, to abuse children sometimes young enough to need comfort blankets and imagine their favourite bunny rabbit or teddy bear could hear what was said to it. What, she wondered, happened to that imagination when people like Jean Smet and Felicite Galan and all the other stunted freaks finished with them, even if they allowed them to live? Wrong: allowing personal emotion to intrude. If she stood any chance whatsoever and with the taunting clock inexorably counting off every minute of every hour she was beginning to doubt that she did stand any chance allowing that sort of intrusion actually put Mary Beth at risk.

'The host?'

'Absolutely,' agreed Smet. 'She was determined to control the others as she controlled us. She liked disciples.'

Claudine frowned at the biblical a.n.a.logy, disliking it. Instead she thought of another, unsure in her absence of religion of the accuracy of her recall. It was something about suffer the little children. Reluctant to concede defeat, Claudine said: 'Tell me about Felicite Galan as a person.'

Smet weighed the question. 'Arrogant. Needing constantly to be the object of all attention: to be admired, never opposed. Sophisticated. Used to every good thing in life, after being married to Marcel. A hedonist willing anxious for every new experience.'

Claudine had been prepared for the man to attempt every possible personal benefit rather than give a truly accurate opinion but decided that he hadn't. Instead, surprisingly, he'd answered honestly. Curiously she said: 'You admired her, didn't you? Maybe you were even physically attracted to her!'

'She terrifies me,' confessed the man. 'I could never lose the feeling that one day she'd destroy me: suck from me every ounce of blood and leave me to rot in her web.' He gave a bitter snort of a laugh. 'And she has, hasn't she?'

Claudine said: 'Charles would have killed Mary Beth, wouldn't he?'

Smet gazed steadily at her across the table. 'To kill someone would be an experience Felicite hasn't had before. I think she'll want to do it.'

Mary Beth hadn't been able to sleep again after waking up to make pee pee, although she pretended to, trying to breathe how people breathed when they were asleep, in and out and making funny gurgling noises.

The woman had startled her, being right there in the chair when she'd put the light on, jerking awake at the sudden glare and coming to the bathroom with her. And she hadn't liked it afterwards, when the woman had taken off most of her clothes and got on the bed, not beneath the covers but on top, so that the bedclothes were tight, trapping her, like the woman's arm was trapping her, heavy over her shoulders and along her arm.

She hadn't liked either the way the tall, bony man had held her too tightly to carry her into the house when she could easily have walked. Or the noises the house itself made, creaking and groaning, like an old man who couldn't move properly any more.

But most of all she didn't like hated the pink fairy costume the woman said she had to wear for the party before going home tomorrow. The material had been stiff and scratchy when they'd made her try it on and she knew she hadn't looked lovely, as they'd said she did. It was too tight around her tummy and the straps cut into her shoulders, hurting her.

'You're not asleep, are you, darling?'

'Almost.'

'I'm going to miss you.'

Mary Beth said nothing.

'Would you miss me, if you didn't have me any more?'

It was another one of those silly conversations. 'I suppose. I don't like the fairy dress.'

'It's a fancy dress party. All of us are going to dress up.'

'Why? It sounds silly.' She wished the woman's arm wasn't so tight around her. She shrugged, trying to ease it off.

'Don't you want me to cuddle you?'

'You're too heavy.'

'Will you wear the fairy costume, just for me?'

'I'm going home, after the party, aren't I?'

'Yes.'

'Promise?'

'I promise.'

'But I want to change first. Back into my new clothes.'

'All right.'

'I'll wear it then. Will there be a cake?'

'And candy. Very special candy.'

The soaring expectation and plunging despair increased everyone's exhaustion. Only Blake and Harding were still determinedly interviewing Michel Blott. Everyone else slumped listlessly around, beaten. Harrison said he'd persuaded the amba.s.sador and his wife there was no sense in their staying, promising to call if there was any development. Henri Sanglier had left with them. Miet Ulieff had gone with Poncellet. Claudine was vaguely aware of Volker, hunched before his three-screen computer a.s.sembly in the adjoining communications room, more surprised at finding Rosetti still there.

Seeing the look on Claudine's face the pathologist said: 'I didn't have anywhere else to go after McCulloch had me explain to Gaston Mehre all the forensic and medical evidence. And I wanted to see it through anyway.'

'We've lost Felicite,' said Claudine. 'And by the time we find her it's going to be too late.'

'No idea at all?'

'None,' she admitted. There was still none two hours later, with the new day lightening up outside, when she finished listening to all the interviews. Volker was with the patient Rosetti when the Italian carried in the third cup of coffee. Peter Blake followed almost at once. Volker offered Claudine the papers he was carrying and said: 'Eindhoven police wired the specification of Felicite's Goirle house. Our people are still going through it. So far there's nothing.'

'And won't be,' said Claudine dully.

'You can't find what isn't there,' sympathized Rosetti.

'And it isn't,' said Blake. 'The ransom instructions are our only chance. This time we've got to get a fix. She won't kill the child immediately. With helicopters we'd have time to get to her before anything happened.'

The coffee was stewed and disgusting and Claudine put it aside, undrunk. 'There has to be a way!' she insisted stubbornly. 'We've got so much, know so much about Felicite Galan in particular that there has to be a direction to follow. We're just not seeing it!'

'There isn't!' Blake was equally insistent. 'We've been through it all each and every way.'

Claudine stared down unseeingly at the villa details, forcing every iota of her profile through her tired mind. 'As well as suffering a psychosis Felicite Galan is arrogant, opinionated and rich,' she recited to herself. 'She's the link between her own and at least one other paedophile ring and she's determined to impress them with the best child-s.e.x orgy she can organize. She's going to be the host ...' Claudine stopped, blinking, finally focusing upon the papers in front of her. 'Spread them,' she told Blake, hurrying away from the table. He had done so by the time she returned with the architects' drawings of the Antwerp river house they'd obtained earlier from the city's planning department.

She used the remaining half-filled coffee cups to weigh down the edges to make a side-by-side comparison.

'What?' demanded Blake.

'Antwerp's got the huge bas.e.m.e.nt room we all saw tonight,' said Claudine, tracing the drawing with her finger. 'As well as that huge room overlooking the river. And six bedrooms.' She switched to the other set of specifications. 'Goirle's got an even bigger main room. And five bedrooms.' She looked up, stretching, trying to ease the ache from her back and neck. 'Felicite's the host. That's what Smet said. So they're all coming to her. It's her party so it's going to be somewhere of her choice. But these two houses aren't big enough. And we know it's not at the Boulevard Ans.p.a.ch here in Brussels. If you're throwing a party a very special party like this and your own house isn't big enough for all the guests, what do you do?'

'You rent something,' said the ever-antic.i.p.ating Volker.

It took him less than an hour. Knowing the name and branch of Felicite Galan's Brussels bank from the statements taken from her Boulevard Ans.p.a.ch house, he hacked into its mainframe computer and accessed her personal financial records. They listed two legally held accounts opened in Luxembourg ten years earlier, at first held jointly in the names of both herself and Marcel Galan. They had reverted to Felicite within a month of her husband's death. One was an investment account, serviced by five different share portfolios. From the investment holding there was an automatic quarterly transfer of $10,000 into a working current account. From that account, two days earlier, $2,500 had been paid to Bildeek and Doorn, which was listed in the Namur telephone directory as an estate and house rental agency.

'I should have found the Luxembourg accounts within an hour of getting the Brussels bank statement,' said Volker apologetically.

'We've still got it in time,' Claudine rea.s.sured him.