The Rift, Rachel Lynch [books recommended by bts .txt] 📗

to Quay 91, where Khalil’s shipment from Algiers was due to dock at seven p.m.

The Grand Port Maritime de Marseilles saw traffic of almost one hundred thousand tonnes go through it in a single year. It was vast. It was the main seaport for the whole of France and pivotal to European trade going back over two thousand years.

Grant drove through the ancient port, which was now a gentrified tourist hub with fancy seafood restaurants, lavish hotels and apartments. Expensive yachts docked there and he could see hundreds of vessels twinkling and bobbing in the early-evening light. He headed north to the working port, a huge expanse of terminals, quays and warehouses: the beating heart of the city. It smelled functional and his open windows took in the aroma of the sea mixed with the fumes of colossal vessels arriving from all over the Mediterranean. Cargo from Algeria docked in the Quai de la Joliette area. The landing stages along the quay were separated from the street by white metal barriers, and to get inside, Grant had to enter through Gate 7 and show his ID, arranged by Khalil. He turned into the gate and waited at the barrier, showing the guard his photo card. He was ushered through and told that he could use the carpark to the right. After leaving his car, he headed to the dockside and waited inside a cafe frequented by dock workers and security guards. It served onion soup, terrines, croque-monsieurs and casseroles. Grant took a table at the window and ordered an espresso.

He watched the towering concrete structures overlooking the quayside and looked for anyone entering Quay 91. Vehicles of all shapes and sizes came and went from the carpark and he looked at his watch. It was half past six, and he gazed towards the entrance to the mighty port in the distance, seeing if any vessels were making their way to the terminal. Several working ships were either approaching or leaving the dock, and others were sat idle or being loaded or unloaded. He heard shouts, horns and announcements as he sipped his sweetened coffee.

The door opened, and a woman walked in and looked around.

Grant froze. She spotted him and smiled. She walked to the counter and ordered something and pointed to Grant’s table. Then she walked towards him and sat opposite him. Her hair was free and her face was open and friendly. She hadn’t changed. He felt his pulse elevate: she was gorgeous.

‘Hi Grant,’ she said.

‘Hi Helen,’ he replied.

Chapter 39

In the small cafe, on Quai de la Joliette, Grant stared at Helen.

Neither knew what to say.

The ambience of the place could have filled in the gaps for them, should they have wished, but Helen spoke first.

‘You look well, Grant. Congratulations on the job. You deserve it,’ she said.

He held out his hands, with upturned palms. It was more than a gesture: it was an offering of solace, want, need, apology and something else, guilt?

‘It’s good to see you,’ he said.

She leant on the plastic tablecloth, coming closer to him, and put her hands in his. They locked eyes and seconds passed as each ex-lover read the other, deeply and fluently, like forgotten favourite stories.

‘Are you following me?’ he asked.

‘Of course,’ she replied.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t get in touch to tell you,’ he offered.

‘About what?’ she asked.

‘The job, how close I am to Khalil. I didn’t know you were the lead investigator until a few days ago,’ he said.

‘Hakim has only been missing since Sunday,’ she admonished him. She slipped her hands out of his.

‘So, is that your brief? Missing person?’ he asked.

‘You know I can’t tell you that,’ she said. She sat back.

‘What’s it like?’ she asked.

He looked at her.

‘I mean, working for him?’ she added.

‘He’s a good man. Hard, but authentic. He loves his son more than anything in the world. What’s happened, it’s cut deep.’

‘Losing a child always cuts deep.’ It was out before she could stop herself. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean…’

‘It’s all right, Helen, you can talk about it any way you like.’ He put his hands in his pockets and looked around. ‘What about you? I heard you are working for the ambassador in Paris. How did that happen?’

‘Well, strictly speaking, I’m not working for him, he just recommended me to Interpol. I report to Colonel Palmer.’

‘Palmer? Jesus, how the hell can you stomach that?’

‘It’s bearable, just. He knows not to cross the line with me, but he’s still an arsehole. Besides, I’m a pretty free agent back in Lyon. I don’t have much to report at the moment, and Palmer hasn’t asked. He did insult me, though, before I left Paris for Lyon.’

‘What?’ Grant bristled.

‘He implied that the ambassador’s faith in me was misplaced.’

‘So you’ve got to prove him wrong?’ he asked.

She smiled in answer to the question. He knew her well.

‘He’s a proper bellend,’ Grant added.

‘Why? Because he stuck his tongue down my throat and tried to cop a feel?’

Grant knew all about the incident, because he’d been there. He’d wanted to punch him in the face at the time and rip his balls off, but Helen had argued that it would end his career, and Palmer would still be a cock anyway, whatever he did.

‘You look beautiful, Helen.’

She shifted uncomfortably, uneasy with the compliment, and he continued to stare at her.

‘Come and work for me – you’re wasted on these buffoons,’ Grant said.

‘Tempting, but I couldn’t take your orders,’ she replied.

‘I’d work for you,’ he said.

‘No you wouldn’t,’ she replied before she changed the subject to why she had come all the way from Lyon to find him. ‘Why is Khalil being so obtuse? He won’t meet me.’

‘He’s distracted, his son’s missing.’

‘I hadn’t noticed. Don’t be vague with me, Grant. You’re both hiding something.’ She paused. ‘Why are you packing metal?’ She knew from the way he was sitting that he carried at least one weapon.

‘I’m a private bodyguard.’

‘But your principal isn’t here.’

They looked at one another. Their eyes never drifted,