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Back The Double Save as PDF
Chapters (63)
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  63. Acknowledgements

He stood with his back against the door, surveying the passengers. He fingered the knife in his pocket, hoping he wouldn’t have to use it. But she seemed to be taking an eternity. He knocked on the door. ‘Hélène?’ No sound but the whirring of the electric hand dryer. ‘Hélène?’ He rattled the door. It was locked. Idiot. Of course she wasn’t coming out. What made him think he could trust her?

‘Hélène?’ When he slammed his shoulder against the door, it flew open, and he nearly fell inside.

She gazed at him levelly, her eyes sharp as flint. ‘There’s no need to panic. I’m not going anywhere. Obviously.’

Back in their seats, when he picked up the cord to tie their hands together again, she shook her head. ‘I’ll accompany you to London. But you’re not tying me up.’

‘I need your help.’ He blushed at the desperation in his voice.

‘Which you have. But if you hurt me, or I feel threatened in any way, I’ll scream bloody murder.’ She gave him a hard stare. Perhaps he’d underestimated her. Though if the story she’d told him was true, her lifetime of pain and troubles would certainly account for the steely determination in her eyes.

He stowed the length of rope in his pocket. ‘If the weather is kind enough to cooperate,’ he said, in a toffee-nosed accent. ‘London can be very pleasant this time of year.’

She suppressed a smile, but he could read her thoughts. Mid-January? More likely it would be dismal. Damp and grey from the winter fog.

After arriving at Montreux without further incident, they changed for the train to Geneva Airport. Vidor studied the passengers. The man in the blue parka with the black carry-on boarded the train with them, which was a bit worrying, but the other one, the one with the snowboard, was nowhere to be seen. Vidor dared to feel a flicker of relief. Gessen must be playing it smart. Better to let him go, and why not? He wasn’t a criminal. Whatever Gessen might believe in that lunatic imagination of his, he hadn’t killed anyone. Once back in Cambridge, his time away in a remote mountain loony bin would make a good story for his colleagues. ‘Nice facilities, but the clinic director is a bit of a nut job.’ That’s what he’d say at the pub he frequented on Fridays. The regulars would stand him rounds of drinks in a belated celebration of his prize and sing ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’.