In Their Footsteps / Stolen: In Their Footsteps / Stolen
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Thrilling praise for
‘Tess Gerritsen is an automatic must-read in my house.
If you’ve never read Gerritsen, figure in the price
of electricity when you buy your first novel by her,
’cause, baby, you are going to be up all night. She is
better than Palmer, better than Cook… Yes, even
better than Crichton.’
—Stephen King
‘[Gerritsen] has an imagination…so dark and
frightening that she makes Edgar Allan Poe…
seem like goody-two-shoes’
—Chicago Tribune
‘Superior to Patricia Cornwell and
as good as James Patterson…’
—Bookseller
‘It’s scary just how good Tess Gerritsen is…’
—Harlan Coben
‘Gerritsen has enough in the locker to seriously worry
Michael Connelly, Harlan Coben and even the great
Denis Lehane. Brilliant.’
—Crimetime
‘Gerritsen is tops in her genre.’
—USA TODAY
‘Tess Gerritsen writes some of the smartest, most
compelling thrillers around.’
—Bookreporter
Also available by Tess Gerritsen
IN THEIR FOOTSTEPS
UNDER THE KNIFE
CALL AFTER MIDNIGHT
NEVER SAY DIE
STOLEN
WHISTLEBLOWER
PRESUMED GUILTY
MURDER & MAYHEM COLLECTION
www.mirabooks.co.uk
To Misty, Mary and the Breakfast Club
Prologue
Paris, 1973
He was late. It was not like Madeline, not like her at all.
Bernard Tavistock ordered another café au lait and took his time sipping it, every so often glancing around the outdoor cafée for a glimpse of his wife. He saw only the usual Left Bank scene: tourists and Parisians, red-checked tablecloths, a riot of summertime colors. But no sign of his ravenhaired wife. She was half an hour late now; this was more than a traffic delay. He found himself tapping his foot as the worries began to creep in. In all their years of marriage, Madeline had rarely been late for an appointment, and then only by a few minutes. Other men might moan and roll their eyes in masculine despair over their perennially tardy spouses, but Bernard had no such complaints—he’d been blessed with a punctual wife. A beautiful wife. A woman who, even after fifteen years of marriage, continued to surprise him, fascinate him, tempt him.
Now where the dickens was she?
He glanced up and down Boulevard Saint-Germain. His uneasiness grew from a vague toetapping anxiety to outright worry. Had there been a traffic accident? A last-minute alert from their French Intelligence contact, Claude Daumier? Events had been moving at a frantic pace these last two weeks. Those rumors of a NATO intelligence leak—of a mole in their midst—had them all glancing over their shoulders, wondering who among them could not be trusted. For days now, Madeline had been awaiting instructions from MI6 London. Perhaps, at the last minute, word had come through.
Still, she should have let him know.
He rose to his feet and was about to head for the telephone when he spotted his waiter, Mario, waving at him. The young man quickly wove his way past the crowded tables.
“M. Tavistock, there is a telephone message for you. From madame.”
Bernard gave a sigh of relief. “Where is she?”
“She says she cannot come for lunch. She wishes you to meet her.”
“Where?”
“This address.” The waiter handed him a scrap of paper, smudged with what looked like tomato soup. The address was scrawled in pencil: 66, Rue Myrha, #5.
Bernard frowned. “Isn’t this in Pigalle? What on earth is she doing in that neighborhood?”
Mario shrugged, a peculiarly Gallic version with tipped head, raised eyebrow. “I do not know. She tells me the address, I write it down.”
“Well, thank you.” Bernard reached for his wallet and handed the fellow enough francs to pay for his two café au laits, as well as a generous tip.
“Merci,” said the waiter, beaming. “You will return for supper, M. Tavistock?”
“If I can track down my wife,” muttered Bernard, striding away to his Mercedes.
He drove to Place Pigalle, grumbling all the way. What on earth had possessed her to go there? It was not the safest part of Paris for a woman—or a man, either, for that matter. He took comfort in the knowledge that his beloved Madeline could take care of herself quite well, thank you very much. She was a far better marksman than he was, and that automatic she carried in her purse was always kept fully loaded—a precaution he insisted upon ever since that near-disaster in Berlin. Distressing how one couldn’t trust one’s own people these days. Incompetents everywhere, in MI6, in NATO, in French Intelligence. And there had been Madeline, trapped in that building with the East Germans, and no one to back her up. If I hadn’t arrived in time…
No, he wouldn’t relive that horror again.
She’d learned her lesson. And a loaded pistol was now a permanent accessory to her wardrobe.
He turned onto Rue de Chapelle and shook his head in disgust at the deteriorating street scene, the tawdry nightclubs, the scantily clad women poised on street corners. They saw his Mercedes and beckoned to him eagerly. Desperately. “Pig Alley” was what the Yanks used to call this neighborhood. The place one came to for quick delights, for guilty pleasures. Madeline, he thought, have you gone completely mad? What could possibly have brought you here?
He turned onto Boulevard Bayes, then Rue Myrha, and parked in front of number 66. In disbelief, he stared up at the building and saw three stories of chipped plaster and sagging balconies. Did she really expect him to meet her in this firetrap? He locked the Mercedes, thinking, I’ll be lucky if the car’s still here when I return. Reluctantly he entered the building.
Inside there were signs of habitation: children’s toys in the stairwell, a radio playing in one of the flats. He climbed the stairs. The smell of frying onions and cigarette smoke seemed to hang permanently in the air. Numbers three and four were on the second floor; he kept climbing, up a narrow staircase to the top floor. Number five was the attic flat; its low door was tucked between the eaves.
He knocked. No answer.
“Madeline?” he called. “Really now, this isn’t some sort of practical joke, is it?”
Still there was no answer.
He tried the door; it was unlocked. He pushed inside, into the garret flat. Venetian blinds hung over the windows, casting slats of shadow and light across the room. Against one wall was a large brass bed, its sheets still rumpled from some prior occupant. On a bedside table were two dirty glasses, an empty champagne bottle and various plastic items one might delicately refer to as “marital aids.” The whole room smelled of liquor, of sweating passion and bodies in rut.
Bernard’s puzzled gaze gradually shifted to the foot of the brass bed, to a woman’s high-heeled shoe lying discarded on the floor. Frowning, he took a step toward it and saw that the shoe lay in a glistening puddle of crimson. As he rounded the foot of the bed, he froze in disbelief.
His wife lay on the floor, her ebony hair fanned out like a raven’s wings. Her eyes were open. Three sunbursts of blood stained her white blouse.
He dropped to his knees beside her. “No,” he said. “No.” He touched her face, felt the warmth still lingering in her cheeks. He pressed his ear to her chest, her bloodied chest, and heard no heartbeat, no breath. A sob burst forth from his throat, a disbelieving cry of grief. “Madeline!”
As the echo of her name faded, there came another sound behind him—footsteps. Soft, approaching…
Bernard turned. In bewilderment, he stared at the pistol—Madeline’s pistol—now pointed at him. He looked up at the face hovering above the barrel. It made no sense—no sense at all!
“Why?” asked Bernard.
The answer he heard was the dull thud of the silenced automatic. The bullet’s impact sent him sprawling to the floor beside Madeline. For a few brief seconds, he was aware of her body close beside him, and of her hair, like silk against his fingers. He reached out and feebly cradled her head. My love, he thought. My dearest love.
And then his hand fell still.
Chapter 1
Buckinghamshire, England
Twenty years later
Jordan Tavistock lounged in Uncle Hugh’s easy chair and amusedly regarded, as he had a thousand times before, the portrait of his long-dead ancestor, the hapless Earl of Lovat. Ah, the delicious irony of it all, he thought, that Lord Lovat should stare down from that place of honor above the mantelpiece. It was testimony to the Tavistock family’s sense of whimsy that they’d chosen to so publicly display their one relative who’d, literally, lost his head on Tower Hill—the last man to be officially decapitated in England—unofficial decapitations did not count. Jordan raised his glass in a toast to the unfortunate earl and tossed back a gulp of sherry. He was tempted to pour a second glass, but it was already five-thirty, and the guests would soon be arriving for the Bastille Day reception. I should keep at least a few gray cells in working order, he thought. I might need them to hold up my end of the chitchat. Chitchat being one of Jordan’s least favorite activities.
For the most part, he avoided these caviar and black-tie bashes his Uncle Hugh seemed so addicted to throwing. But tonight’s event—in honor of their house guests, Sir Reggie and Lady Helena Vane—might prove more interesting than the usual gathering of the horsey set. This was the first big affair since Uncle Hugh’s retirement from British Intelligence, and a number of Hugh’s former colleagues from MI6 would make an appearance. Throw into the brew a few old chums from Paris—all of them in London for the recent economic summit—and it could prove to be a most intriguing night. Anytime one threw a group of ex-spies and diplomats together in a room, all sorts of surprising secrets tended to surface.
Jordan looked up as his uncle came grumbling into the study. Already dressed in his tuxedo, Hugh was trying, without success, to fix his bow tie; he’d managed, instead, to tie a stubborn square knot.
“Jordan, help me with this blasted thing, will you?” said Hugh.
Jordan rose from the easy chair and loosened the knot. “Where’s Davis? He’s much better at this sort of thing.”
“I sent him to fetch that sister of yours.”
“Beryl’s gone out again?”
“Naturally. Mention the words ‘cocktail party,’ and she’s flying out the door.”
Jordan began to loop his uncle’s tie into a bow. “Beryl’s never been fond of parties. And just between you and me, I think she’s had just a bit too much of the Vanes.”
“Hmm? But they’ve been lovely guests. Fit right in—”
“It’s the nasty little barbs flying between them.”
“Oh, that. They’ve always been that way. I scarcely notice it anymore.”
“And have you seen the way Reggie follows Beryl about, like a puppy dog?”
Hugh laughed. “Around a pretty woman, Reggie is a puppy dog.”
“Well, it’s no wonder Helena’s always sniping at him.” Jordan stepped back and regarded his uncle’s bow tie with a frown.
“How’s it look?”
“It’ll have to do.”
Hugh glanced at the clock. “Better check on the kitchen. See that things are in order. And why aren’t the Vanes down yet?”
As if on cue, they heard the sound of querulous voices on the stairway. Lady Helena, as always, was scolding her husband. “Someone has to point these things out to you,” she said.
“Yes, and it’s always you, isn’t it?”
Sir Reggie fled into the study, pursued by his wife. It never failed to puzzle Jordan, the obvious mismatch of the pair. Sir Reggie, handsome and silver haired, towered over his drab little mouse of a wife. Perhaps Helena’s substantial inheritance explained the pairing; money, after all, was the great equalizer.
As the hour edged toward six o’clock, Hugh poured out glasses of sherry and handed them around to the foursome. “Before the hordes arrive,” he said, “a toast, to your safe return to Paris.” They sipped. It was a solemn ceremony, this last evening together with old friends.
Now Reggie raised his glass. “And here’s to English hospitality. Ever appreciated!”
From the front driveway came the sound of car tires on gravel. They all glanced out the window to see the first limousine roll into view. The chauffeur opened the door and out stepped a fiftyish woman, every ripe curve defined by a green gown ablaze with bugle beads. Then a young man in a shirt of purple silk emerged from the car and took the woman’s arm.
“Good heavens, it’s Nina Sutherland and her brat,” Helena muttered. “What broom did she fly in on?”
Outside, the woman in the green gown suddenly spotted them standing in the window. “Hello, Reggie! Helena!” she called in a voice like a bassoon.
Hugh set down his sherry glass. “Time to greet the barbarians,” he said, sighing. He and the Vanes headed out the front door to welcome the first arrivals.
Jordan paused a moment to finish his drink, giving himself time to paste on a smile and get the old handshake ready. Bastille Day—what an excuse for a party! He tugged at the coattails of his tuxedo, gave his ruffled shirt one last pat, and resignedly headed out to the front steps. Let the dog and pony show begin.
Now where in blazes was his sister?
AT THAT MOMENT, the subject of Jordan Tavistock’s speculation was riding hell-bent for leather across a grassy field. Poor old Froggie needs the workout, thought Beryl. And so do I. She bent forward into the wind, felt the lash of Froggie’s mane against her face, and inhaled that wonderful scent of horseflesh, sweet clover and warm July earth. Froggie was enjoying the sprint just as much as she was, if not more. Beryl could feel those powerful muscles straining for ever more speed. She’s a demon, like me, thought Beryl, suddenly laughing aloud—the same wild laugh that always made poor Uncle Hughie cringe. But out here, in the open fields, she could laugh like a wanton woman and no one would hear. If only she could keep on riding, forever and ever! But fences and walls seemed to be everywhere in her life. Fences of the mind, of the heart. She urged her mount still faster, as though through speed she could outrun all the devils pursuing her.
Bastille Day. What a desperate excuse for a party.
Uncle Hugh loved a good bash, and the Vanes were old family friends; they deserved a decent send-off. But she’d seen the guest list, and it was the same tiresome lot. Shouldn’t ex-spies and diplomats lead more interesting lives? She couldn’t imagine James Bond, retired, pottering about in his garden.
Yet that’s what Uncle Hugh seemed to do all day. The highlight of his week had been harvesting the season’s first hybrid Nepal tomato—his earliest tomato ever! And as for her uncle’s friends, well, she couldn’t imagine them ever sneaking around the back alleys of Paris or Berlin. Philippe St. Pierre, perhaps—yes, she could picture him in his younger days; at sixty-two, he was still charming, a Gallic lady-killer. And Reggie Vane might have cut a dashing figure years ago. But most of Uncle Hugh’s old colleagues seemed so, well…used up.
Not me. Never me.
She galloped harder, letting Froggie have free rein.
They raced across the last stretch of field and through a copse of trees. Froggie, winded now, slowed to a trot, then a walk. Beryl pulled her to a halt by the church’s stone wall. There she dismounted and let Froggie wander about untethered. The churchyard was deserted and the gravestones cast lengthening shadows across the lawn. Beryl clambered over the low wall and walked among the plots until she came to the spot she’d visited so many times before. A handsome obelisk towered over two graves, resting side by side. There were no curlicues, no fancy angels carved into that marble face. Only words.
Bernard Tavistock, 1930-1973
Madeline Tavistock, 1934-1973
On earth, as it is in heaven, we are together.
Beryl knelt on the grass and gazed for a long time at the resting place of her mother and father. Twenty years ago tomorrow, she thought. How I wish I could remember you more clearly! Your faces, your smiles. What she did remember were odd things, unimportant things. The smell of leather luggage, of Mum’s perfume and Dad’s pipe. The crackle of paper as she and Jordan would unwrap the gifts Mum and Dad brought home to them. Dolls from France. Music boxes from Italy. And there was laughter. Always lots of laughter…
Beryl sat with her eyes closed and heard that happy sound through the passage of twenty years. Through the evening buzz of insects, the clink of Froggie’s bit and bridle, she heard the sounds of her childhood.
The church bell tolled—six chimes.
At once Beryl sat up straight. Oh, no, was it already that late? She glanced around and saw that the shadows had grown, that Froggie was standing by the wall regarding her with frank expectation. Oh Lord, she thought, Uncle Hugh will be royally cross with me.
She dashed out of the churchyard and climbed onto Froggie’s back. At once they were flying across the field, horse and rider blended into a single sleek organism. Time for the shortcut, thought Beryl, guiding Froggie toward the trees. It meant a leap over the stone wall, and then a clip along the road, but it would cut a mile off their route. Froggie seemed to understand that time was of the essence. She picked up speed and approached the stone wall with all the eagerness of a seasoned steeplechaser. She took the jump cleanly, with inches to spare. Beryl felt the wind rush past, felt her mount soar, then touch down on the far side of the wall. The biggest hurdle was behind them. Now, just beyond that bend in the road—
She saw a flash of red, heard the squeal of tires across pavement. Froggie swerved sideways and reared up. The sudden lurch caught Beryl by surprise. She tumbled out of the saddle and landed with a stunning thud on the ground.
Her first reaction, after her head had stopped spinning, was astonishment that she had fallen at all—and for such a stupid reason.
Her next reaction was fear that Froggie might be injured.
Beryl scrambled to her feet and ran to snatch the reins. Froggie was still spooked, nervously trip-trapping about on the pavement. The sound of a car door slamming shut, of someone running toward them, only made the horse edgier.
“Don’t come any closer!” hissed Beryl over her shoulder.
“Are you all right?” came the anxious inquiry. It was a man’s voice, pleasantly baritone. American?
“I’m fine,” snapped Beryl.
“What about your horse?”
Murmuring softly to Froggie, Beryl knelt down and ran her hands along Froggie’s foreleg. The delicate bones all seemed to be intact.
“Is he all right?” said the man.
“It’s a she,” answered Beryl. “And yes, she seems to be just fine.”
“I really can tell the difference,” came the dry response. “When I have a view of the essential parts.”
Suppressing a smile, Beryl straightened and turned to look at the man. Dark hair, dark eyes, she noted. And the definite glint of humor—nothing stiff-upper-lip about this one. Forty plus years of laughter had left attractive creases about his eyes. He was dressed in formal black tie, and his broad shoulders filled out the tuxedo jacket quite impressively.
“I’m sorry about the spill,” he said. “I guess it was my fault.”
“This is a country road, you know. Not exactly the place to be speeding. You never can tell what lies around the bend.”
“So I’ve discovered.”
Froggie gave her an impatient nudge. Beryl stroked the horse’s neck, all the time intensely aware of the man’s gaze.
“I do have something of an excuse,” he said. “I got turned around in the village back there, and I’m running late. I’m trying to find some place called Chetwynd. Do you know it?”
She cocked her head in surprise. “You’re going to Chetwynd? Then you’re on the wrong road.”
“Am I?”
“You turned off a half mile too soon. Head back to the main road and keep going. You can’t miss the turn. It’s a private drive, flanked by elms—quite tall ones.”
“I’ll watch for the elms, then.”
She remounted Froggie and gazed down at the man. Even viewed from the saddle, he cut an impressive figure, lean and elegant in his tuxedo. And strikingly confident, not a man to be intimidated by anyone—even a woman sitting astride nine hundred muscular pounds of horseflesh.
“Are you sure you’re not hurt?” he asked. “It looked like a pretty bad fall to me.”
“Oh, I’ve fallen before.” She smiled. “I have quite a hard head.”
The man smiled, too, his teeth straight and white in the twilight. “Then I shouldn’t worry about you slipping into a stupor tonight?”
“You’re the one who’ll be slipping into a stupor tonight.”
He frowned. “Excuse me?”
“A stupor brought on by dry and endless palaver. It’s a distinct possibility, considering where you’re headed.” Laughing, she turned the horse around. “Good evening,” she called. Then, with a farewell wave, she urged Froggie into a trot through the woods.
As she left the road behind, it occurred to her that she would get to Chetwynd before he did. That made her laugh again. Perhaps Bastille Day would turn out more interesting than she’d expected. She gave the horse a nudge of her boot. At once Froggie broke into a gallop.
RICHARD WOLF stood beside his rented M.G. and watched the woman ride away, her black hair tumbling like a horse’s mane about her shoulders. In seconds she was gone, vanished from sight into the woods. He never even caught her name, he thought. He’d have to ask Lord Lovat about her. Tell me, Hugh. Are you acquainted with a black-haired witch tearing about your neighborhood? She was dressed like one of the village girls, in a frayed shirt and grass-stained jodhpurs, but her accent bespoke the finest of schools. A charming contradiction.
He climbed back into the car. It was almost sixthirty now; that drive from London had taken longer than he’d expected. Blast these backcountry lanes! He turned the car around and headed for the main road, taking care this time to slow down for curves. No telling what might be lurking around the bend. A cow or a goat.
Or another witch on horseback.
I have quite a hard head. He smiled. A hard head, indeed. She slips off the saddle—bump—and she’s right back on her feet. And cheeky to boot. As if I couldn’t tell a mare from a stallion. All I needed was the right view.
Which he certainly had had of her. There was no doubt whatsoever that it was the female of the species he’d been looking at. All that raven hair, those laughing green eyes. She almost reminds me of…